I wouldn’t tell and you wouldn’t know and I will deny even if you will, till the storm lasts that the storm existed and I stood in the centre of it, right in the eye, spinning like a top would spin with the unwind of a string. And don’t ask me why because I know you love it when the poor wooden top spins on the ground, you don’t put it out of it’s misery but you just play with it until it runs out of all it’s energy and lay lifeless on your palm.
The storm is blowing away the dust, debris and masks, pealed away to show the ugliness of a few familiar faces. But faces don’t haunt me, I have seen them all sweet and then turning ugly, only these ones are a bit up close.
In the centre spinning, absorbing maximum energy from the storm I am digging the ground pealing it’s harsh surface and making groves in the dry mountainous terrain, smooth, stained red with my blood and deep, in hope to reach to the waters which runs in the veins of the land, fluid, full of life, to green the dry land and give me strength and life.