My heart is darkened with the passing of a thousand storm clouds. My soul begins to dissipate into the churning wind. My mind freezes in fear of the thunder. My strength fails with the falling of the rain and hail. Everything that I cling to begins to wash away along with the dirt beneath, from which I am made.

The storm presses ever on; perverting light into its own cruel shades with its coming. With every pulse of my heart, clouds amass into an ever darkening wall of oncoming might. The sky thickens and swells like the very blood in my veins. Light fades, for there is none within myself as the storm presses ever on.

The storm presses ever on; its winds blow so fiercely that even my inner being is torn apart. All that I have beheld as stable and sure within me is toppled and turned. There is no longer any absolute to hold onto; for I am held by a million arms, each pulling in a different direction. Stillness and calm are forgotten, for there is none within myself as the storm presses ever on.

The storm presses ever on; its thunder transcends my conception of power. Every blast brings an increasing revelation of might. So full are the rumblings that my very consciousness pales in comparison to the faintest passing note. Awareness is no longer compatible with coherence, for there is none within myself as the storm presses ever on.

The storm presses ever on; its contents pelt the entirety of my being. Icy drops set my nerves on edge; cold stones break every inch of my skin. In perfect unison with gravity, they drive me into the mud from which I am made. Effort, and the energy with which to execute it, diminish; for there is none within myself as the storm presses ever on.

Everything of my composition is being laid to waste. My heart screams; though, my tongue is silent. Words seem arbitrary compared to the toil and strife within. Thus, confusion further ensues. Why the pain? Why the sorrow? Why this relentless desire to exist in stark contrast to my current affliction? All that I once told myself is drowned out by the ever pressing storm.

The clouds blot out all. The wind races on. The thunder shakes the ground. The rain and hail ever fall.

And the storm presses ever on.

But if it were not for some source of light, I would have never beheld the clouds.

If it were not for some source of gravity centering me, I would not know the pull of the wind.

If it were not for some source of deep wonder, I would not know the might of the thunder.

If it were not for some desire to be comforted and loved, I would not know the pain of rain and hail.

Thus, even as the storm presses ever on, my Maker ever calls out to me.