AUGUST 25

I wish there was a word for the wind that whips through just before a downpour. The warning wind, perhaps we could call it. (Like everything on this planet, there's a reason for it.)


The warning wind hits different depending on where you are. If you're inside and watching your neighbors sprint down the block, perhaps it feels mischevious. On the streets, it could be an ominous or foreboding force. But if you feel like getting caught in the storm, maybe the warning wind is exciting — an indicator that things are about to change.

Since I started writing this, the skies have opened up. Heavy like storms tend to be in the summer. Most of the people on the sidewalk already have their umbrellas out. I'm always impressed by how many people carry umbrellas. I've never been one of them. No particular reason. Only forgetfulness — and a desire to keep myself as light as possible. A desire that only pertains to my physicality, almost never my writing.


I tend to write about feeeeeeeelings. Heavy ones, particularly. I get caught up in them and the Instagram-Therapist assertion that they are "valid." In my early 20s, I became obsessed with the ~science~ behind physical manifestations of emotion. (I don't have hobbies. I have topics I obsess over.) I think perhaps I felt that symptoms like hip tension or migraines or an upset stomach were more tangible than sorrow or anxiety. Like I would be able to prove the intensity of my internal reactions through something like pain in my shoulder.

But I suppose it doesn't really matter. Emotions, thoughts, obsessions. None of it stays.


Already, quick like a summer thunderstorm, the summer thunderstorm is rolling out. Since it came, since it poured, I don't feel any different. The warning wind told of change but it was only temporary. The sidewalks are slick. The people on the streets are drenched. Some look elated, some look pissed off. In an hour, everything will be dry. I don't know why I'm writing this.

xx

© 2020 by Cailey Rizzo