/the growl of the gods

/the growl of the gods

A swirl of wind, a robe of shadow. It is the onset of autumn. Or is it the winter? Given the impact of global warming on the current seasons, can one be sure anymore? The greens are turning into yellow. A lesion of black light is churning in the sky. It bulges and swells, like a cauldron of doomsdayblack.

Etretat’s white chalk cliffs and arches have been purged of its pristine-white majesty. You have passed the pebble beach where the sea buckles and creaks to the mercy of the heaving tide. The earthshine-gold aurora of summer has faded, leaving a storm-tossed seascape and a tempest of wind. As you trek uphill, you see the sea stewing in its bruised-blue hatred. What once caressed the naked rocks, now lash it.

But the howls of the hollow sky and waves crashing on distant shores of time compose a rhythm that represents life. Yes, it’s rageful, and can easily be categorized as the growl of the gods, yet, it’s soothingly ambient. You close your eyes, you take a deep breath, and the air symbiotically harmonizes with your breath. It’s you, at the cliff, hauntingly beautiful and metaphorically lifelike.

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