In the middle of the tempest comes a break. The first wall of water and wind breached and battled and leaving behind weary empty shells. Shells of what used to leave in the somewhat peace and tranquility of the pre-storm era. A used-to life. A time of repetition and certainty. A time of knowing what comes next; nothing on the horizon but the familiar.
The storm appears. You can see it coming; it's on the radar. Weathermen warn to take cover to duck to flee north from the monster coming to destroy your life. An easy Cat. 5. Naw, you think. It won't get me. It'll divert and head the other way like it always does. But, not this time. The ligthening strikes close, raising the hair on your arms and the small delicate strands on the back of your neck. And yet, you still don't take cover. You run to the front porch and marvel at the sheer magnitude of pure, unadulterated destruction barreling your way. Still, you think a juking and diving will save you.
Then the winds arrive like hounds loosed from their cages chasing the fresh scent of young fox. It howls and roars around you. The foundations of your house shake and rattle. Nails, formerly thought to be solidly entrenched in the wood, tear loose with the screaming buckling of metal. Sensing a weakness, the temptress wind seeps in through the openings and, at first, slowly, eats away at the interior of the house. Testing, pulling. pushing at the weak spots. Satisfied it has found a weakness the wind lashes with fury - focusing its gale force hate on the weak spots - until, finally the roof pries loose, followed by the walls. Off into the maelstrom they go - you no longer have the strong protection you once thought existed.
Now, shaking in fear, you look for some safe haven - none is found it is too late to hide from the baleful monster screeching in your face. You brace against what you have left - maybe a random interior wall, or the bathtub, or a stubborn bit of kitchen plumbing. You grasp with raw hands, those being ineffective, your grip slips to your fingertips, then finally to your fingernails. You feel the storm pulling your nails from the nailbeds in a horribly bloody attempt to dislodge you completely. And yet, you hold fast. By the last shred of ability you hold steady and maintain. Just maintain.
Slowly, the gusts of hate and putrid ignorance slow, and fade. Your feet gradually touch the floor and you no longer need to grasp at bits of wood and scraps of memories to keep you grounded. The sun shines. It is the eye. The calm. The time for regrouping. The gift of time to plot how to survive the south wall - the worst part of the storm; Hells own portal on earth.
You turn your face to the sun drinking in the momentary respite; realizing there is now no way to escape the coming fury. The time to run has long passed. Looking around, you gather your courage and stronger base from which to make your stand. This time, you know what to expect from the racing storm. You know you must survive by using more than your fingernails - they will not remain intact in the face of the coming fury.
And survive you will - there is no other option. Because, as you know, on the other side of the wall of hell is the sweetest air, the breath of hope, the knowledge of change and of again living in the sun. Of being able to rebuild what has been torn down and now lies in shambles at your feet. This time rebuilding stronger and with a better knowledge of how to avoid the next storm; how to survive with change.
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