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Because the Weather is Full of the Threat of Rain

There are, I have discovered, few things that amaze me.

Sitting here, in the dazzling sun while basking in the dour of a cold southerner threatening to take my sun away and turn the sunny afternoon into something more quaint, less exciting, I know and wait and see the unfolding of the magnificence only nature can bring, and I watch it with the anticipation of a child waiting for a gift from his mother, only less profound, because in this case, the gift was ephemeral and immaterial.

And it's common knowledge that immaterial things, emotions, psychoses, frustrations, and peace, count for plenty in the big scheme of things, but only, only if the packaging is gorgeous enough to dazzle the senses. In this case, again, it is not. After all, the slow cycle of the weather and seasons is an imitation of the flux of the impenetrable immaterials of your average person, and thus, when the sun slowly wanes in the face of heavy weather, one cannot help but imitate, and sink into a ponderous air slowly, like the collapse of a heavy boot into an equally heavy bog.

This is how life becomes luminous. But it no longer fascinates me.

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