Raining with no ride

It's not until you find yourself in the heart a lightning storm you find out how bold or not so bold you actually are. Brave enough to make a two mile walk home, but still just enough fear to duck whenever the lightning flashes.  Primal impulses I guess, the stuff we're hardwired for in order to stay alive, or in some cases pumped into us by our parents from childhood (be afraid of this, because we're afraid of this).

You also realize how much metal you're actually surrounded by (street signs, lights flag poles, chain link fences, etc.) You also start noticing how low those power lines are and you remember horror stories about people getting struck because they were way too close or standing in a puddle.

If you're out in the open and you see the sky light up, you might have enough of a split second to see what direction the bolts are coming from, the fear and the wonder jockeying for position in your heart. Your heart, which you finally noticed is racing like a sonuvabitch. There's a numbness on you tongue, almost metallic. You can't tell if it's the electrified atmosphere or just your tongue recovering from all the hot tea you drank earlier. You're excited.  Another flash and you you duck again, shit, you might even bob and weave.

Not as brave as you thought. Brave enough to step outside.  Brave enough to walk.  Brave enough to put one foot in front of the other and repeat the process no matter much shit the world tries to give you.  Brave or stupid. I'm cool with either one.