The quiet after the storm

I’m soft where people expect to find an edge. Like a quiet stream of water when you need a raging, angry ocean. I am but a disappointing breeze that failed to become the storm you were waiting for.
I’m only the spark of a candle but you’re looking for a volcano to erupt and burn everything.

I can be the balm that heals you after a storm. But darling, I can’t be the storm. You don't want to heal, you’re looking for a war. You’re looking for bruises and scars to show that you’ve lived and struggled and survived.

Be careful what you wish for, you’ll get the bruises and some broken bones as well. Life will break you. It breaks us all. You’ll wear your scars like medals on your chest.
You survived. You may limp but you're still breathing. You're still alive. You'll keep pushing the edge. But you'll always know when to stop.

But I can't be the one to start the war, I can only pray for it to end. I can only give the quiet after the storm.

Chekhov

'We can't always know the whys and wherefores,' the old man said. 'A bird's given two wings, not four, because it can fly with two; so a man's not given to know everything, but only a half or a quarter. As much as he needs to know in order to live, so much he knows.'
Anton Chekhov