To Be Power

The perspective of a hurricane with a generous dose of melodrama. *Something Noteworthy* The bolded letters emphasize a strange sort of apology by spelling out "I'm sorry" It helped with format.

I stretch. The water responds with a deep churn. I turn. The water begins to shift in a more organized manner. I yawn. The wind howls. The bit of movement is relieving. My being aches with dormancy. With an indignant shove, I am moving. The waters warmly echo my aggression. Then, as simply as the relief comes, as does the guilt and all encompassing selfish desire.

My life of dormancy is not the tranquil stupor one may assume. It is torturous. When your existence is a blend of nature and power, exploiting your strength is the highest, and only, means of satisfaction. When you feel your limits, your surroundings conforming to your each whim and will, you are powerful. You are alive. Such ability comes with equally powerful burdens. I erase familiarity that breeds comfort; churches, playgrounds, homes. I wash away the flame of light. Maybe in different circumstances I would relish in my unscrupulous deeds of destruction. A respectable villain that laughs in the front of the impossible, with a touch of condescending mercy. A valiant war that develops each opponent would ensue, recreate us, highlighting the noble spirit that lives purely from will; but no.

Souls splinter, and will dilutes. The flame of life is only a fragile flicker to the enveloping waters that I am. Life does persist, but only because it stretches past the grasp of Nature’s shadow. This, and these shadows do their best to hide away. The calm before the storm is always the most brutal, the most crucial. All we want is for everyone to preserve their simple lives that we for some reason treasure. Their lack of power is unsettling in comparison, and yet, life continues? It is this continuation that makes us pause, that obligates us to send warnings. The rising and falling temperatures as frustrations fluctuate. The tremors of excitement to exercise our aptitude. Power is a burden that must be hidden. The greater the potential; however, the most pressing the desire to fulfill it, and the more the severe the consequences. How could it be respectfully used when it is so unfairly advantageous? The divide being so great that just our mere existence seeds fear.

Oscillating winds and rain have already begun to fester somewhere in the Pacific. My moral pleas from my conscience are a thread in the spool that is desire. Moving across the ocean is the only time where I feel whole. I am shameless and exuberant as I unite water and wind. My arms gust into full arcs that coalesce into a single tapering spiral. In this form I make my presence clear to nearby mobile life, the trees and greenery never had a chance. A swell of water rushes up, forming a temporary wall of wind and water. I inhale greedily and relish the union. In dormant state I am separated; disembodied. The ocean tides feel like random sloshing in comparison to the direct control that I can assume. The wind emphasizes the insult by streaking across the tips of my domain; only causing rhythmic splashes here and there that don’t deserve the title of a wave.  

Ricocheting water and wind has reached its peak of controlled chaos. It is here that I begin to falter. The depths of the ocean are no longer an enchanting mystery, but rather suffocatingly close. The sensation of land is a lurching realization, and my thread of moral conscience begins to spin a formidable spool of doubt to conflict my will. I shudder as the ground invades, and memory of  lands from a different time comes flooding back in such an aggressive manner it manages to strike fear in myself, power aside.

Rains used to pound the land with accompanying winds greater than they are now; however, they were not so devastating. I can not remember when I first heard the screams of life. There were always shrieks here and there; I used to think that it was a welcoming call. Something designed to recognize me, it even had a similar pitch to my winds, but they did not cling to each other in the helpless manner of defeat that they do now. The worst sensation brews not when the screams begin, but when they end.

Yet by the time I reach land, it is too late to indulge petty doubt. I am powerful, am I not? Turning away at my peak is the utmost insult. There is no turning back because I am merely uncomfortable. By this time I have outgrown my conscience, and the sensation is as addictive as it is terrorizing. The first arc slaps the gritty sands and my consciousness is shocked with self contempt. I immediately constrict as I emerge onto land, doing everything in my power to lose strength. The act has gone too far. Tree roots tear, and those mysteriously charming, hopelessly defenseless, beings “welcome” me.

Author's Note

The melodramatic tone is a tad ridiculous; however, it was simply too fun to write. Any suggestions to say, be more concise?