The storm is loud, raging. It hurts all around it. No one can control it, if anything it controls them. In its wake it leaves a path of destruction. Hope is lost, tossed away with the broken remains of what was once our home. No one that nears it gets hurt.

But it hurts itself as well.

The storm, it destroys, it’s out of control. Then there’s the eye of the storm. A forbidden peace, a calm, a silent tranquility. All chaos and bloodshed left behind. There’s something so sickeningly beautiful about the eye of the storm. It washes away all pain, all sorrow, all panic.

A storm, yes. But not a literal one, it is no tornado. The storm is inside of us, of the mentally ill. A storm that builds and builds whenever something bad happens and overflows when small inconveniences occur. When you feel overwhelmed. This storm, it hurts others, makes the person who owns it feel like a monster. It hurts itself more than others

—This is how I’m feeling lately, please be nice. The storm came out today and I snapped on my friend today.—