The Tempest

You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismayed. Be cheerful, sir.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits andAre melted into air, into thin air;

And – like the baseless fabric of this vision –
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. (4.1.146-158)

A nervous storm gathers. Circumspectly, its tendrils flourish themselves in an attempt to form around an indeterminate axis. Where did they come from? Where are they traveling to? When did they appear? Perhaps they’ve always been here; but only now have the conditions aligned for them to manifest in a comprehensive form…

Morphing and shifting as they always have, a mysterious gravity compels these diaphanous, disparate clouds to condense — to amalgamate. Steadying themselves in the net of their newfound collective rhythm, a determined rain begins to fall.

The tempest has grown confident and steadfast. A rhapsody of prowess and intention rumbles and echoes through its every atom, imbuing its particles with rapidly alternating currents. Exuberant collisions bring forth dynamite flashes of animation and annihilation as a new atmosphere emerges, birthed by friction.

Heat cools, clouds dissipate, and rain puddles. Ideas too, speak themselves and become dormant, for a time. Until we can next measure these frequencies, vibrations may manifest in other forms. Sleep well…

Image by Arthur Rackham