I sat outside
while lightning flickered through the clouds
in soft silver veins,
the kind that never touch the ground
but still make the whole sky feel alive.

The air was warm from the day,
but the wind had started turning cool,
moving through the fields and against my skin
like the earth itself was exhaling.

Above the storm,
the stars stayed bright.
Steady. Unmoving.

And below them
the clouds kept flashing with distant power,
like some ancient battle was unfolding
just beyond the horizon.

It should have felt violent.
Instead, it felt holy.

As if heaven itself could hold
both chaos and peace
at the same time.

I could not stop looking at it —
the stars beside the storm,
the beauty beside the ruin,
the quiet beside the power.

Because the stars did not disappear for the lightning.
The sky did not choose between wonder and ruin.
It carried both.
It survived both.

And sitting there beneath it,
with the wind in my hair
and the storm glowing softly against the dark,
I think some part of me wanted to believe
that maybe I could too.