A storm hit this little Louisiana town tonight, lashing the willows and old oak trees, drowning the streets in murky water.  We’re close enough to the Gulf to be able to taste the salt on the wind that whips in from the water.

I sit at my dining room table beneath a small, aging chandelier fixture that is flickering in time to the repeated illumination of lightning, writing by hand in a battered leather journal with yellowing pages, a journal that reminds me of the book I took from the shop today.  So many words flow, images trapped for so long, let loose like the flooding outside.  I write because I have to— if I don’t, I think I might burst.  I write of the wind, captured and chained, drawn into mortal form, turned into a tool for power and dominance.  The wind outside the windows wails like the bean sidhe who mourns an imminent passing as I write these things, and I somehow feel as though she mourns for me.

Which makes no sense.

It should make no sense…

My head is hurting again.