Sublime | Heather Zundel

Thursday was terrible, long. . . and busy. I had had no time to myself, no time to think or breathe, no time to listen to music or write. Heck I didn’t even have time to eat a freakin’ candy bar. On top of an Olympian pile of homework, I had to watch a documentary for a history class. Off Campus. At night. When I could have been doing anything besides, well, watching a documentary. The cramped room had those stupid folding chairs that are the school’s closet thing to a torture device, and I was actually grateful to get one. The ominous clouds outside the high window did little to improve my mood. Yet as the lights dimmed, my eyes lingered on the sight, the clouds, curling black masses blended with blue and gray. They foamed and exploded, flecks escaping the great mass to highlight another piece of the moving tapestry. It was beautiful. It was sublime. I stared long outside that window, its small light casting pale shadows on the students below. It was such a growing mass, so terrible, so beautiful, so alive. Staring out that window, on the most hectic day of that week was the best thing that had happened to me, and I was grateful for that glimpse of the world’s immensity.