The Perfect Storm

As he stood there with his eyes closed, the wind tearing at his clothes and hair, he could feel the million tiny lances break against his skin and die. Each prick like the desperate thrust of a dying soldier in an army a million strong. Each prick sending ripples of masochistic pleasure seering through his body.

He stood there, shivering, as the cold rain sent down wave after relentless wave of tiny soldiers to break against him and die. He could feel the ache washing away. He could feel his fatigue slough off like dead skin. Cold and reptilian.

He stood there listening to a million dying sighs. He heard them all - each sigh - fashioning himself a new skin crafted from their dying echoes.

He stood there feeling each epicenter as a million tiny shockwaves exploded on him. In him. He soaked them all up - each little supernova - fashioning a soul crafted from their dying embers.

Right then, if someone had asked him, he'd have said this was the happiest he'd ever been. The joy of life a newborn might feel. An infant who's never tasted death, disappointment and despair.

And as he turned his unseeing eyes heavenward he couldn't help thinking that if there is a god this must be Him. And he smiled.