Note to Self: I miss you terribly.

            The page is still blank.  A thunderstorm rages on outside, but much of its grandeur is robbed from me by the towering lamp post whose light shines brightly on my window.  I will have to shut the blinds.  The occasional CRASH! of lightning striking some unseen landmark overpowers it, and every time I see a flash I wait for a low rumble to interrupt the otherwise-unbroken silence.  This is a place that I can never truly call home.

             I love thunderstorms.  For as long as I can remember they have been a shelter for my mind, even while the pitter-patter of raindrops exposes my body and chills my bones.  As everyone else was falling asleep, I spent an hour driving down some obscure highway.  I watched the brilliant light show strike benign targets across the rolling countryside, and as I parked, water at last began to permeate the stale, dry air.  I pulled the hood of my bulky brown sweater over my head and lit a cigarette.  Every minute I spent watching the beads run down the sides of my car brought me deeper into a place inside my head that I rarely visit.  It is a bizarre state of mind, and as I finally turned toward the door I felt more introverted and more inspired than I have in quite some time.

             Slowly making my way up to my room, I shielded my eyes from the bright lights in the hallway.  I locked my door and changed, smoked another cigarette, then sat down at my desk, staring at a blank page.  Everything I wanted to say, everything I meant to write, has disappeared into some hidden part of my mind and will not reveal itself.  I wanted to tell you something, but all I can do now is say goodnight.

The End

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