Fresh Air

During a storm, houses are shuttered up and doors locked tight.  The air is trapped inside.  No light or warmth enters.  Then the storm ends.  The clouds vaporize into the blue sky, and the world cups the rain, using it to turn the plants a splendid shade of green.  The houses open their shutters and doors, and the pure, clean air rushes into the stuffy rooms. 

Writing has the same effect on the brain as opening a window in a dank room.  When no one's around to listen, or when I'd feel like a heel making any poor soul listen to my issues, the blank document sits quietly.  Waiting, watching.  It listens.  It takes in my thoughts.  My fingers fly across the keys, the emotion in my heart spills out.  There comes an appex point.  When I'm so involved in what I'm writing that any interruption would anger me. And then, the Denouement begins.  My fingers slow, the words in my brain that I could not express are on a document that I don't have to show anyone if I don't want to. For a little I breathe heavy, as if I've just run a race.  I feel lighter, the world is brigthter.  The rain clouds reveal that they're only made of vapors that blow away with a slight breeze.  All I had to do was open the windows of my brain to let in the fresh air.