A man said it would storm...

Funny, but a man said it would storm. And as I idle in this keeping place, my eyes would linger on the outside, expecting an hourless darkness and desperate, despairing winds, to disturb these still rivers of streets, moan like a widow who echoes her laments in the music of the things she absently fingers in passing.

Storm, where are you? No sunshine for me, the shadows it makes fools me into believeing that time passes, when it does not. No, it does not seem to pass in this limbo of waiting. The paradox of wanting is that everything else would conspire against the one who wants, time being the most prominent of these conspirators.

Wanting for a storm, am I simply waiting for the weather to console me, accompany me in this solitary state I am in? They had called this literary technique as "pathetic sympathy," the author fits the hero with a suitable weather to emphasize all that makes him the hero, as one would don a cape for dignity, or a teacup for civility.

Be that as it is. What makes me wonder is if asking for sympathy really just pathetic.