perfect weather

Warm skies matched my mood in the morning. I saw white seagulls floating against blue when I was waiting for the bus. They drifted in and out of my line of sight, just like my thoughts. Nothing stuck, nothing played in my head. Sun shone on my skin, and I felt like clear space.

When I left uni, I found that the weather had turned. The once empty sky was now filled with broody looking storm clouds. Hail clapped on the roof of the bus, and grew stronger as I walked out the bus door. As I walked along Martin Place, little pellets of ice tapped the back of my skull, pinched my skin. I stared up and white swirled above me.


Everyone loves a good storm. Lightning flashed and corporate types giggled like they were schoolgirls again, splashing through the flooded roads to get under cover, women's power suits drenched. The world is a bizarre place once more. I resigned to being soaked, and sloshed my way to Wynyard with my clothes clinging to me.


As I shivered home in the air conditioned bus, my mood from the morning remained in tact. Water dripped from my hair, chilly fabric stuck to my skin. Nothing was washed away, nothing stayed behind. Things were fine as they were.