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Tropical storm.

Hurricane season.

By alettertomyselfPublished 4 years ago Updated about a year ago 1 min read
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During that time, I didn't have much planned. I was sleeping late until I became bored with hitting snooze on my alarm. I spent all my time alone without a purpose or a place to be at.

It was dark inside my studio because my curtains were always drawn, but one day I woke up feeling my isolation; the walls were pushing in on me. I opened the windows to get some air.

The storm was approaching my town. The sky had turned a baleful shade of grey-purple, and rising dust flew chaotically, like monochrome noise on an old photograph. When the thunder shook the ground, cold fear crawled under my skin.

The branches of an old oak tree kept swinging their black, bony arms. Twinkling streetlights covered shivering green leaves with yellow hues, illuminating their glossy skins. The luminous, slippery road was flooded with rain nectar, and passing silver cars got stuck in it like a row of tiny insects.

I felt so small, like dandelion fluff that had been blown far away.

Why did I move to Miami? I remembered the serenity of dense pine woods in my hometown, walking on crunchy old leaves and collecting pinecones. I could smell the resin dripping on wet green moss; fresh amber juice was brighter than the gold.

Suddenly I noticed my floor getting wet. There was no doubt that my little studio was getting flooded. I started picking up my possessions: books, shoes, summer clothes, and some electrical cords. Everything I had been collecting throughout the last five years could fit into just one box.

nature
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About the Creator

alettertomyself

English is my second language, and some say that speaking two languages could give you a split personality. I'm learning how to express my thoughts so that doesn't happen :) I'm a big reader and I love writing short stories.

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