Peace. A truly wonderful gift, a rare blessing. It was not often that nature took out of its spare time to provide us with a cherishable melody- one made not from singers or instrumentalists, but rather an orchestra of natural phenomena.
First, there would be a wave of anticipation. Cold, almost Antarctic gusts would bring with it foreshadowing of a bleak future. Without mercy or restraint, it would ensnare all life in its frigid hearth, a freezing warmth. It would whistle like the grim reaper on a day when business was ‘flourishing’. Then, the crusaders of mist would corner the endlessly ornate patchwork of blues, before finally engulfing the carnelian guardian in the skies under a tsunami of monotonous grey.
These embodiments of gloom would dematerialise without reason, into pearls of true beauty. Even though they had just been born, they rushed to the lifeless grounds of brick and bitumen with unmatched courage, with trillions of them participating in an ever-anticipated marathon, only to be shattered at the end of their journey, completely oblivious to their sealed fate. These trillions of blurs coalesced to form one giant mirror, one with much to reveal, yet always showing the same reflection of pointlessness.
Beyond the gloom of existentialism, something heavenly was produced. The meet between wet droplets and dry mud produced petrichor – a smell as pleasant as the aroma of a masterpiece perfume, one a perfumer would value as much as their children. Nevertheless, the rush of rain produced sounds similar to that of a pleasant shower, drowning out the deafening noises of wheeled metal behemoths, or the thumping of inconsiderate residential companions.
That was until the erratic timpanist joined the melody.
It seemed as though the oblivious pearls had achieved sentience, forming frozen globes to declare war on the defenceless lifeforms that came from the mud. They instilled fear on those that hid behind thin walls of glass, with a shrill war cry upon impact. Even when collected by curious hands, they would threaten them with potential hypothermia.
To add to the chaos, beams of light would pierce through the blanket of monotony, as though the sun was struggling to break free of this grim mould. The skies would phase between dark and light, with unfathomably loud sounds of rumbling, as though two titans were battling for dominance.
Yet somehow, when these elements of chaos came together: The whistling of cold gusts, The showering of tears from the skies, the war cries of frozen globes and the bellowing sounds of thunder the perfect alignment for a masterful melody was complete. It was as though a philanthropic orchestrator had carefully created this intricate plan- to create peace from chaos.