After the calm, the storm.
And during the storm?
What does happen during the storm?
Some people does cower then suddenly they rise up and bruk through like Samson brukking up stone.
Then you have some who, during the storm, don't cower at all. You stand up, move around, do what you must do. But as soon as that storm pass, you fall to the ground, dry-up like thirsty leaf. Anxiety and fear jook like sharp plimpla as you try to make your way out of them thorns.
You feel tempted to hide in a cool, dark place, to curl up with your worries so you can recreate the storm, because the storm is from the past, and though the past lash you hard like devil weeing on you, it is the devil that you know; it is the devil that you’s most comfortable with.
The future, because you can’t sense it, feel worse.
But maybe you truly hate the ol’ bruk-a-down rubble. So you pick up your dowsing rod and you go ‘til ping, like instinct, you find something. You grab your li’l shovel, fix your feet firmly on the ground and you dig. Dig, fumble, stumble, dig. And before you know it, you’s creating a fresh new place.
In other words, to be precise and concise, after I receive sad or shocking blows, I does cope. Then, when I start to recover, I does become scared and anxious. The temptation to curl up with them worries does be strong. But I know that this ain’t a flourishing thing to do, I know I should get going. I must keep going ‘til I feel like the water-melon that been in we veranda all Friday afternoon, into the night and on Saturday morning, sitting in the white basket-chair, taking sea-breeze, grinning.