[open] sometimes what keeps you alive is a mystery; any

[aios]

jupiter's by my side and we watch galaxies collide

She is the anger in the summer storm, although she has nothing to rage against. There is no injustice for which she thrusts her fist into the air. There is no rightful fury pounding in her chest. Nothing to define the emotion that she carves into her very bones. She is angry because she is the wind and the lightning and she rose today and decided to be. She cuts her teeth in the undefined and unrooted rage; she lets it simmer and boil in her chest. She calls the storms around her and let it crackle across the sky like the tempest she is, feeling the wind roar into her veins with all of the passion she is capable of, lighting her on fire.

It’s exhilarating to hand herself over to the extremes of her moods, and she flings her power low and wide, letting the storm rip through the forest as she walks. There is the sound of a tree branch that falls and it brings a wild grin to her face, the lightning under her skin spreading out with a vicious snap, running down the length of her spine before retreating.

There is a pause as she gathers her energy once more, drawing it close and preparing to throw it out once more, when she notices him at all. He is quiet and still and so blanketed in sorrow that it jolts her from her vengeful path forward. Her foot rises and then falls where it had lifted, stamping into the earth with an exhale, her nostrils blowing hard in either exhaustion or confusion or perhaps merely curiosity. In the end, it doesn’t matter.

The storm ends as quickly as she had brought it, her heart swallowing it up as she makes her way toward him—cutting through bramble and bush and mossed over path.

She doesn’t attempt to hide her approach and when she is several feet away, she pauses to consider him with a wild, vicious delight in her eyes.

“I’m sorry for the weather,” she remarks with a flash of a smile.

But it is clear that she is not sorry at all. 

my apathy is losing ground