low thick grey clouds

In the middle of the night a thunderstorm had hit home and I awoke to the pouring rain and thunder rumbling across the sky. In almost a strangely continuous, loud, and somewhat alarming volume, the low thick grey clouds without lightning penetrated to warn of the next crash. I remained starring at my window in sleep paralysis. With the windows open the black clouds felt invited to scatter their minions of heavy rain into the shadows of my room. Tear drops can spill around one way or another onto a menagerie of creatures oblivious to the bluster. Flinched. I felt their cold splashes puddle my senses bathed in a hypnotic sky-dance of light and sound.

If we could imagine, really imagine, what it was like to be soaring above the world, care-free, astonishingly aware, senses alive in a way that we bored, distracted, abstracted, sensually dulled humans can no longer conceive, if we could put ourselves in and surrender to the spell of the sensuous, we could never return to, never again tolerate, the unimaginative poverty, the prison that our culture has captured us in. If we could free ourselves from that, if we could imagine such an utterly different way to live, to really live, what could we do? What would we do? When you can't imagine, you can do anything. You can end the world or remain in some inscrutable occupied space.