Tornado

It is relatively calm, but for a few portending breezes Rustling the vast prairie of the conscious’s surface. Close your eyes. And suddenly, the tornado of tangled thoughts assaults the senses with alarming fierceness, unrelenting and uncontainable whipping the mind into a tempest that seizes each errant thought, (for there are no corners, in the mind’s prairie, no mountains to impede the storm’s sweeping course) destroying the houses so carefully constructed in the waking hours violently tossing everything you worked so diligently to convince yourself of into the vortex of the storm. You take cover in the empty darkness hoping that if you are still enough if you wait in silence long enough if you refuse to acknowledge the raging tornado of violent colors and words and regrets and uncertainties, that it will subside, leaving your mind ravaged but mercifully still. You wish even for that tornado to snatch you in its furious gusts and carry you amidst the casualties to Oz, to a world of dreams filled with fearsome beasts both real and imagined, where creatures of nightmare and wicked witches far more sinister than any storm prowl. It is frightening in that world, yes, but anything, anything, to escape the tornado.