The Telltale Signs

I've been thinking a lot about how static builds a charge within us when we caress or rub certain fabrics and materials, how it builds and builds silently, subtly, without warning unless you see those telltale signs: the flicks of hairs standing on end, dancing dust particles.

A bolt 

Surge 

That charge builds.

Lightning conducts electricity to the ground during storms and the charges build and they build. What started as a minor friction—a hand stroked against a linen sweater, or a big golden or red balloon like Nena against the reddest fucking hair you've ever seen—that charge builds. You don't know it, notice it, or pay it any mind unless you spot those telltale signs or feel the charge as electricity connects between you and the moment, and you're standing there feeling like Faraday.

Feel my wrath as the telltale signs of the electrocharge sizzle and you feel alive as it passes.

The potential builds.

The charge builds.

The momentum builds.

Where once you were standing at a child's birthday party, playing with party poppers and scoffing cake and delighting at the balloon animals sticking to everything and anyone, you're later wandering through a forest. Then you drive home and, as you step out of the car—

Crackle.

That potential leads to momentum, leads to a charge that builds, and the telltale signs are always there.

Pure electricity.

Pure energy.

Pure power.

For five seconds.

But then I was thinking that we all carry static charges that build and build.

When you lose someone and they are no more, and you feel their presence through absence, the sadness that grips you and holds you captive grows and builds. The telltale signs are there even when you try to hide them, but they build and they build until the electrical charges surge and the wells of mourning open and you weep.

Anger accumulates.

Sexual frustration, arousal, and passion accumulate.

Often unseen, but the telltale signs are always there.

Creative accumulation carries and builds and builds until you're standing at the precipice.

Until the guilt demands.

As the pen demands.

As the fucking fingers on whatever device you are using demand.

Demand.

And then—

The magic.

The power.

The fury.

The fire.

Out then, brief candle,

as it flickers to life

and you become.

You become.

The electric.

The storm.