Mountains and Monsoons
Prose poetry about the necessity of facing chaos
I sat within the eye of a monsoon. Vengeful violent rains raged outside while I remained dry. Above, gray skies and angry clouds obscuring baby blue atmosphere hung on the edge of calm and storm like a titan balancing the world on a single finger. Others ran reckless through the rain seeking shelter, left dripping and out of breath, knocking on doors to caves. Some solemn travelers sat in the eye beside me, waiting for the storm to pass. They could wait forever. I strode in quiet content, tracing the eye wondering why anyone would face the storm. Yet in the midst of the tempest, a select few strolled with calm confidence along a path towards a mountain peak blurred by a barrier of fog. Had they conquered the falling sea of trouble? At least they tried. Fearing the winds and waters, I knew I would never forgive my idle attitude if I lost the chance to journey beside them, to sway a single stone or conquer a range of heights. So I stepped through a solid wall of clouds meeting a winding road towards a towering goal in the raging storm, eyes only on the peak.
