The sheets of rain lash down, almost maniacal in their resolve to pound everything in the way.
The lightning flashes blindingly. For a split second, there is silence, followed by the booming thunder nearby.
The water pounds and pounds. The thunder rumbles. The lightning comes again.
The storm is hitting my windshield and the wipers struggle to move the water. Their back and forth motion is hypnotic — and I wonder whether the storm I feel and hear and fear is really outside — or if it’s inside my heart.
It’s dark and it’s loud and it’s gloomy. The storm outside the car threatens me physically, but the storm inside threatens something far deeper. Far more existential. It’s pounding on my very core again.

Intelligent, well-meaning people often pull in opposite directions
THE McELROY ZOO: Meet Lucy, the dog who used to live on a chain
Norman Rockwell or Norman Bates? Holidays are dysfunctional for some
My bad teen poetry suggests I’ve always hungered for missing love
When life becomes too passive, we stop earning our self-respect
Bride is 89 and the groom is 86,
Biases teach us what to expect, but we often turn out to be wrong