It was this hurricane that pulled me up by my roots and made me see the world swirling below me, quickly at first, and then more slowly.
It was this hurricane that made my hair stand on end with the realizations that not only my life was temporary, it was nigh wasted.
It was this hurricane that blew me out of my skin as I saw all of my flaws spread out before me, along with the priceless flecks of gold that always rested just beneath my surface, and I envied the hurricane its ability to absorb me in this slow-motion cloud of ultimate reality, swimming with the debris of a life once so stable and definite.
If I looked down, I could see her body, her back snapped like a twig, bent in half and hanging loosely, suspended in mid-air. It was eerily calming, to be confronted with this hurricane, an infinite reminder that all in the world was ultimately temporary and could be disturbed at any moment.
It is with care that I had always ensured my hair was clean, dry, styled; before I left my house each morning. An inexplicable sense of certainty had always remained prevalent in my thoughts as I methodically laid each strand, knowing at once that I would be respected for adhering to the norms expected of me. I surrounded myself with people, and somehow it was because of my hair, clean, dry, styled.
In the striking moment of solitude that is this present and exact moment, I have never felt so absolutely alone, so at peace.
All at once, I know where I am. This hurricane is the void I have constantly found myself trying to fill, like an absolute madman. Confronted with the vast expanse of nothingness, finding myself within the void, being one with it as it swirls around me, it is as if I have always known there is no such thing as to run from it.
With a futility in my movements that kept me busy, distracted, from the fuming inevitability of the ceasing of my entire world, run from it I did try. I see now that when I am gone from the face of this earth, in that moment, everything I have built around me will be destroyed. Who will my clean, dry, styled hair concern, when I have disappeared? No one.
No one will care that my every strand was carefully in place, sleek, smooth. A photo of me and my beautiful hair may serve to make them sad, become a piece of haphazard memorabilia, a reflection of my personality. It may be pinned in a scrap-book, “this is who she was, the girl with the beautiful hair, the girl we respected, the girl who had it all together, and we will remember her.”
Or else it might be added to the pile of things that would be burned, for the sake of alleviating pain. When you cannot bear yourself up under the weight of my loss (which is really just a turning of your face towards the reality of death and not the pain of losing me), you will burn the things that remind you of the things you’d rather forget. I see it, the blazing fire of all of my undesirable memory, the ashes mingling with dust as the smoke settles among the stars, there is the fragment of me even when I am gone, all that is left is the smoke.
I have found in this hurricane that life is lived in utter futility. It is this hurricane that embraces me in the unknown, musses my hair, as I drift like smoke toward the stars.