The squall, like most weather, builds fast, thunderous and dark on the horizon.
We know what to expect, the winds of existence whipping around us, damp and rotten in our nostrils.
It hits quick, a ferocious attack.
For a time we face the tumult before being overawed by its power.
So we hunker down, curling up to let life pass by.
The emotional storm rages unabated and we gaze inward, subdued by our ultimate insignificance.
Meaning seems unstable, a self-made creation waiting to be destroyed by the psychological turbulence.
And yet we cling to it desperately. We hope there’s more to life than this.
Because if not, what do we have left?
But where storms gradually gather, they suddenly abate.
The skies clear. The clouds dissipate. The sun shines.
And after a black belly of frustration and anger, only lightness remains, as the self we now know starts to evaporate.
We rise into the sky and realise we are that which we observe.
Awareness stretches in all directions.
Storms will come again, but we’ll now see them for what they are.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The squall, like most weather, builds fast, thunderous and dark on the horizon. <\/p>\n
We know what to expect, the winds of existence whipping around us, damp and rotten in our nostrils. <\/p>\n
It hits quick, a ferocious attack.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3490,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[41],"tags":[],"yoast_head":"\n