A Thunder Storm Monologue
A single light from above illuminates the stage. The player stands underneath, a simple umbrella casts their face in shadow. Rain and lighting fill the ears of the audience. A flash of light will occasionally cover the stage.
It makes me feel so powerful, the wind and rain against my face, as if I am invincible.
There is an energy coiling through the air, lightning waiting to strike, a snake ready to bite, the taste of copper on your tongue.
There is no meaning to it, weather changes, pleasure comes and goes. Patterns that can be predicted, never manufactured.
There is a danger to it too, you could stand in a field until some divine hand licks your face, and courses through you into the ground. Leaving you, the empty hull of a vessel, waiting for more. This is the poetry of it, the romance of thunder in the distance.
Creeping towards the point of no return, where the storm would sweep through your city streets and when it has left you will be gone, forever a gust of wind or a rumble of thunder in someone else's human experience.
And thunder turns to a dim sound, fading to the snapping of raindrops and you are left alone in the drizzle, with only melancholy and damp socks.