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.

How can I share what’s obvious when nobody will listen or see?
Little girl’s happy ending reminds us not to be defined by tragedy
Anatomy of a lie: Why destroy credibility by exaggerating facts?
There’s little unity to be found in our supposedly United States
Should a rational person question orthodox assumptions on climate?
Urban Meyer’s drunken behavior points to deeper character issues
It’s when we create art — and create a better world — that we’re most like our Creator
Goodbye, Amelia (2000-2013)
Facebook leads to marriage for couple whose love never died