Rarely do I write for myself anymore. I have led my past year or so via a list of bullet points, carefully organized into tasks, categories and short/medium/long-term. Every writing piece I have done, unfortunately, was for another agent, another company or another person who I have something specific to communicate.

Writing for myself implies conveying a string of consciousness. I hate to carefully structure, organize and plan things I want to say for purposes too specific, functional or utilitarian. I have always wondered how to stay true to my writing, and when I do structure, organize and plan, I fall into the trap of staying true to other people’s expectations — my intended readers’ expectation.

So why thunders and storms you ask. Because I feel peaceful enough, in a day like this, to shun off all the music, all the reading and all the expectations others and I impost on myself but to just sit quietly, listening to the sound and write whichever comes to my mind. Often this whichever is quite real.

The sound of thunder and rustling rain also serves as a time travel device for me. Perhaps it is because whenever there has been a thunderstorm, I religiously perform what I am doing now, dissociate from the almost mechanical self another identity who is focused on the very such moment. This identity exists today, but also has existed in multiple points in time in the history.

I recall the very same day when I was alone in my small, rudimentary apartment in the ghetto-hood of Sydney, Australia. I just moved in amidst some terrible thunderstorm. The feeling of wet furniture — I can feel it now.

Another point in time was the Friday afternoon after I came from school. Due to the rain, my books and homework were all wet and damaged by the water. I had to put additions paper towels around them hoping that they will help minimize the wrinkles. They never did.

I am luckily dry today and now. Not wet furniture and damp homework papers. I am in a better place today you might hint (better apartment, no homework) than I was before. But it did nod necessarily feel that way. I feel like I have lost the ability to connect to the past.

If life is an infinitely many selves connected by space and time, then I must have, at some point, encountered some big change that causes my inability to relate to the past. Or you could suggest that there might just have been a while — over a decade.

I guess 10 years is a long time.

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