Storm

It ravages through him like a hurricane, leaving untold destruction.

Taking sunny rays of happiness, radiating from his skin, with it and anything else of goodness.

In the aftermath, he walks aimlessly. He's confused, lost, broken and empty.

He beholds his situation like a timid child. Shock absorbs him. Every part of him clutched in its paralyzing grip.

He's become like a sponge. Dense, heavy and burdened with misery, plunged deep, in dark merky waters of despair.

After a while, he resurfaces and drifts for a long time to nowhere. Until he sees salvation: an island.

Consider it an oasis, in this expanse of void. Rich bountiful paradise. It would be a pirate's dream come true. For him, it certainly would.

But the day's gong gray. Soon the sky will be black rage, roaring its thunderous hate.

lashing out in hits of lightning, while wind screams in conjunction, as if they were in competition for who's the most violent and ferocious, both of them together, sounding like a dodgy, disturbing, instrumental. A soundtrack to his life.

But that is the least of his problems, because this time, it's the water that will be doing the damage.

An impending monster of doom, with a relentless, insatiable appetite.

And if he doesn't get to that island quickly, he will vanish. Sinking to the lowest levels of depression and no lifebuoy to save him. Because he's in an ocean, that most won't brave.

Therefore, no one knows he's there, he's on his own.

"If I could just get to that island, if I could just---"

The Storm has begun. The cycle repeats. Uncertainty sprouts and dies, sprouts and dies, perpetually in the mind.

This garden can be difficult to maintain.

Brambles and weeds grow at a rapid rate, taking over precious little space you have.

Space for you to breathe in and think clearly.

Fresh fear and panic shoots up and blinds.

The place has truly run wild, and it's  maddening.

It's taking away peace of mind.

It's eating your sanity bit by bit.

"I can't live like this!"

He faces the other direction, in shame, in embarrassment, but most of all  frustration and glad to have his back turned to that eyesaw of a garden.

Later on that night.

'The forecast for tomorrow folks is not looking good, we've got some more---'

"Fuuuuuuuckk!"

He gets up and throws the remote at the TV, then dashes to it and kicks it off the stand, then picks it up and slams it down like a medicine ball, then stamps on it repeatedly like Issac Clarke.

'I can't take this anymore, I'm  losing my damn mind, please stop!'

An hour later, after he calmed down, he went off to bed, hoping for better days...at least.

Always hoping, he is, always hoping. But not without a tinge of pessimism.

There's another storm right around the corner.

 It's brewing right now.