Every time a storm comes, it brings with its winds a multitude of scents of which my memories are made of. Scents of days gone, of lives past, of friends and foes, of love and hate, of joy and pain.
This storm's winds brough with it an unmistakeable memory of more carefree days, when life was much more simple and where the idealism of youth surged through my blood like lava rising through the veins of a maddened volcano. Years ago, I was like Pinatubo. I did what I had to do because I believed in what it was all about, whatever the cost.
These days, if I don't try hard to remember, I couldn't. And so I thank the wind for carrying the memory back with it from where it had come from. Suddenly, a thought: Is this the same wind that gave me my breath back then? Was it what gave me life? Will it once more fuel my idealism and youthful zeal? The storm howls me an undeniable YES.
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