At twenty one years old I still find myself pulling up a chair to the big glass window to watch the storm. There's something about the way the lightening crashes against the sky that is both terrifying and wonderful at the same time. It reminds us how small we are, and what little control we have. It also reminds me that my little fits of rage are nothing compared to those of mother nature. Tonight she's on fire. Someone has really pissed her off. Must be a man. I say this because of the way she tantrums tonight. Quick and violent, in little bursts of energy, as if she's acting solely on emotion. That seems to be the way I react to a broken heart. When the heart breaks, it sends surges through the body. Some women throw shoes, fists, or whatever is closest to them. They push, scream, and cry in the same manner she seems to be throwing the lightening or roaring the thunder. I'm thinking the Man in the Moon must of laid on some pretty thick lies, and she caught him in the act. One would think that by now that they would know better than to mess with the power of woman, but I guess some things will never change. Men will always lie, women will always rage, and I will always pause to watch a thunderstorm.