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.