Bolt from the sky, crooked through clouds, reaching, searching solace in mother earth, to bury itself in the dark and then the sky shakes with its passing
The lightning lit up the forest. She was almost glad to see the light but then she saw shapes moving through the trees, all walking in unison, and in the same direction, as if guided by one mind. She remained still, hoping they would not see her.
Chanpheng
She’s always been lightning, to me. I’ve never paused to consider the depths as to why. My immediate impression is of the ultraviolet flash they illuminate the nightblack skies with, when they crash in jagged glory from one end of thunder to the next, from heaven to earth, a crash of power and fire. I think of how childhood tempests always echoed the Last Judgment to me, the suddenness and brilliance and inescapable terror-wonder of it, and how now in my adulthood she has become the new and living icon of that inevitable day in her own right. And I think of death, too, of the Lichtenberg figures of blood beneath my skin and how she pulls them into the iron-ozone air. She reminds me of the clear defibrillating charge to resuscitation, to a hope of resurrection, the sheer force of life even at the brink of the grave. She is a spark in the storms of my heart.
Bolt from the sky, crooked through clouds, reaching, searching solace in mother earth, to bury itself in the dark and then the sky shakes with its passing
The lightning lit up the forest. She was almost glad to see the light but then she saw shapes moving through the trees, all walking in unison, and in the same direction, as if guided by one mind. She remained still, hoping they would not see her.
She’s always been lightning, to me. I’ve never paused to consider the depths as to why. My immediate impression is of the ultraviolet flash they illuminate the nightblack skies with, when they crash in jagged glory from one end of thunder to the next, from heaven to earth, a crash of power and fire. I think of how childhood tempests always echoed the Last Judgment to me, the suddenness and brilliance and inescapable terror-wonder of it, and how now in my adulthood she has become the new and living icon of that inevitable day in her own right. And I think of death, too, of the Lichtenberg figures of blood beneath my skin and how she pulls them into the iron-ozone air. She reminds me of the clear defibrillating charge to resuscitation, to a hope of resurrection, the sheer force of life even at the brink of the grave. She is a spark in the storms of my heart.