Storm.
Wild winds blow, moving everything to a new place. Commanding its attention, but very little given. For those of us in the centre of the storm, we have little choice but to live it out. Those outside of it, do not feel its power and perhaps only imagine its effect. Sympathy for those in the outer, distant and wilder places. Empathy for those who share the storm.
When you live wild, you see the storm. Its fast-paced nature, its hungry growls. Too untamed to ever truly belong and causing destruction to find its place.
Storms, however, cannot live in one place forever. Some places see more storms than others. Inhabitants of these places speak of their storms, even naming them or giving them metaphors. At times, they might be spoken of widely, but are only really known by those who live them.
Storms are sites of conflict, a changing world that we believe we have little control over. Loud and unkempt, these storms appear to grow bolder with greater rage, but in some places they are commonplace. The distant, faraway places. The outsiders who are frequently spoken of but seldom understood.
Wild, faraway places are perfect for storms for their vulnerability and isolation. Distanced from the rest of the world, and easy to retreat from when the finer days are spent. Fearing the reality of their rawness, yet never deserted by their people. This storm is their home. Storms in this sense, are a measure of loyalty and love.
Many run far when a storm arrives, but those who stick around do so out of love.