Hain

The sky is a gray ocean tormented with winds, raining violently down upon the earth. I am atop of my building, the black metal veins reflect the night light across the city scene. In the rain, my black cloak billows, drinking the rain up, while I stare into the rolling waves of sea skies. My long hair is damp, lost its yellow of blond and stays gray. My piercing, questioning face is slightly aged with the years of enjoyable work and successful life—with dulled blue eyes that shine the washing skies in them. My mind is not filled with the thoughts of blackness, nor of sadness like this rain should feel. The storm: it is not cold nor is it washing me away, I am washing away the storm.

A crack of white lightning cuts the black clouds, exposing the inners of the storm—a pristine black and white photograph. In this light my hair is short blond, my face is young, eyes are blue. The light just about leaves before it even arrives, seeming to never have been. My wandering soul is still looking into the endless waves of the clouds, not a hint of despair anywhere in it. I look younger than I actually seem. This mechanized world was meant for me but I long for far more distant eras—times that are cherished in our history. I feel like learning the language of Shakespeare, fluently versed in beautiful romantic iambic pentameter. Maybe go back not as far; I am the Romantic era. The Romantics are how I feel, what I enjoy, what I aspire. And this is the rain of my beginning and ending. Few know I am up here, just me to my thoughts of life, philosophy, and happiness. And that cloak just keeps fluttering despite its weight in water. So forward is is my silent expression, I am part of this storm.

The storm clears, and the first rays of light reach through the mists, being large pillars to hold the blue ceiling above. The light evaporates this image of me, and all is seen is me. My hair is short blond, my eyes bright blue, and my unkempt scraggly beard somehow keeps amazingly, unnaturally straight edges. My blond brows set above my eyes high as I look into the warming world around me. There were storms in my life, and they are a part of me. There will be more storms of my life that I must face; overcome—be bettered by by them, excel from them, be the stronger to help others through their future storms. I am the aged wanderer, never yet seen the seas of mist over land, the oceans of rain in the sky, or winds of aether in dreams. But I feel that they are there. My black cloak to hide me from those that are not willing to hear me; to keep me veiled in whatever mysteries they choose to create of me. But I am there none the less.

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