Nature is not always a gentle goddess. Sometimes, she is cold, sweeps us all in her apathy. When it rains, the raindrops, so gentle on tender leaves, sometimes turn traitors. They pound the earth, like drumsticks, only infinitely sharper, as he who has ventured out would tell. I am drenched, soaked, and strong gusts of wind bring chills. It is the worst, when she is angry, and scorching hot. The expanse before me is now covered in gloom, and what binds me to it are the sun rays that sear all in their path, and the hot wind that imprisons my spirits.
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People can be cold too, and their tongues sharp. How easy it is, to forget to be kind, to snap at others! Oh! None of this is touch, is it? Touch is, forgive me the paradox, intangible here. And yet it is there, somewhere. In the shards of sarcasm that hit you with so much force, in the waves of humiliation that wash over you. In the steady, unrelenting hold of regret, in the dead weight of boredom. It is the worst, that stab of fear, it goes away, soon enough, but leaves behind gripping anxiety and dread to imprison my spirits.
