Not an hour ago I was being backlit by flickers of electric blue in the sky, like a character in a film reel running out on itself through a projector. Every third or fourth footstep was enough to shake the air, it seemed, and the rain traced the veins in my arms, slowly gliding down my warm skin like a lover's touch until it reached my hands, and my knuckles, and my fingertips, and then finally my pockets.

And here's where I don't think the storm becomes what you think it's going to be. The choice to take it and use it as a hackneyed illustration of some internal conflict, some emotional dilemma rendered microcosmic by it's surroundings, is tempting, but this is a place for truth, and the truth right now is that I haven't got any duelling choices tearing me apart. Instead, seeing all the chaos which, you know, isn't chaos, but as natural as can be, taking place around me, cut loose a different animal, a new bull in my own private china shop.

If it is. (The other Three Words which turn me on). If it is natural for such things to happen, then, gosh, its meant to be. And if it is meant to be, then who am I to deny it. I'm no-one, really. Nothing. Just one in two hundred million who spent nine months waiting to be one of six billion and counting. So if it is just the way of the world that the air can roar and the sky can spit sparks of their own accord, I don't really think there's much I can do but to accept that. It's like how I was talking to friends this weekend, and the question came up about whether we were all scared to die. I was surprised that everyone was, that everyone dreaded what was inevitable, except me. Because if it is unavoidable that we are all going to die, the only thing to fear is not doing enough with your life. And in the face of all the things that are natural and meant to be, I don't for a second believe that myself, or anyone else, can't do precisely what they want with their life. As much as we all exist on this canvas, we can fill in the brushstrokes ourselves, however we want to. If we can do that, we haven't got to be afraid of death.

Maybe the storm has ended up being what you thought it would be; a metaphor for a collision perhaps. And maybe this isn't the best-explained piece on here, there are holes in my argument, and there are flaws to be chipped away at, but this isn't something based on logic. This is something based on feeling, born from the heart and not the head, and spat on a page like the sky with its sparks. This is from walking home in the rain and thinking everything is how it should be, and yes, things are going to be alright. Because I will make them alright.