As summer fades, tremendous heat awaits release under the waves of the Mediterranean sea.
When conditions meet, this energy can be unleashed in the french Cévennes
mountain range in the shape of floodlike rains driven by colossal winds.
I stand at the edge of the forest. Around me is a fury of rain and wind. Nature's great anger fills the spaces and forbids daylight from reaching the land.
Alone but for the memory of my grandmother whose passing I just learned, I lose myself in the howling storm.
Everything is mist. A concrete wall of condensed wind pours from the south through some gates of Hell that won't close. Old trees silently stand firm against the violence of the elements while the lake is grown into a restless ocean.
The storm breathes. In and out the mist comes.
Beyond the choked horizon there seems to be nothing, as though the unrelenting rage in the air breeded from a cold and dimensionless void.
Captive from the ravaging darkness, the land abides.
But even the strongest storm eventually abates, and the fog slowly withdraws from the sky.
I stand still in the midst of a place now quiet, draining its water in a quiet weep.
As the sky breaks up, a distant light emerges above this forgotten forest.
And finally, the sun remembers our existence and shines life back into the hurt land.
The last roaming ghosts of the storm are set ablaze and fade into oblivion.
My soul, too, has been lifted from this haze and I silently mourn.
In memory of my beloved grandmother,
Of the Lindt and the Toblerone, the creaking wooden stairs, the terrifying boiler,
- Of the rose garden. -
