St. Elmo's fire is a weather phenomenon
in which luminous plasma is created by a corona discharge
from a rod-like object such as a mast, spire, chimney, or animal horn
in an atmospheric electric field...
The intensity of the effect,
a blue or violet glow around the object,
... is proportional to the strength of the electric field
and therefore noticeable primarily during thunderstorms...
The phenomenon, which can warn of an imminent lightning strike,
was regarded by sailors with awe and sometimes considered to be a good omen. source
He had been staring at the screen, fingers primed on the keyboard for several minutes. What could he possibly say that hadn't been said already? At least they'd progressed to that position. For too long they had refused to go anywhere near his laptop at all. It was a start.
Aargh! He threw himself back in his chair, and then, drawn by the moonlit vista beckoning from his study windows, ambled over to gaze out beyond the periphery of the edges that lined his world. Winter was well and truly here. But not in the way it used to visit. There was no fresh white powder puff blanket to wrap its cycle of calm and renewal around his life. Just the cold ... and the frost ... no snowman this year.
Returning to his seat, he picked at the photo frame lying face down on the table in front of him... probably the cat, he mused... Jello was the one constant in his life. He was a cool cat. Just a year old but he'd grown into a beast, and crept into his heart. Scrappy too. Don't get on the wrong side of those claws! They were sharp, and he'd not yet learned to restrain himself (much like his 'dad', who struggled at the best of times). But underneath, he was a playful gentle soul who visited him in the quiet of the night when the only sounds filling the house were the whirring of the pcs in the background and the tap-tapping of his fingers across the charcoal-black illuminated keys. Occasionally Jello would flop down between himself and the keyboard, intent on writing his own story. Occasionally he would actually say something credible.
He looked at the clock.
He kicked the legs of the chair from underneath him and stood to stretch. A cuppa tea...that's what he needed.
The whistling kettle drew his attention...Favourite porcelain mug - check. Silver Needle - check. Sweetener - check. Water temp 79 C - check. Allow to steep 2-3 minutes ... aah good, just enough time for a comfort break.
Usually, he went for black tea, conventional 100 C boiling water, sweetener (stevia leaf not the other kinds that induce all sorts of negative chemical responses in the brain and body), and steeped unconventionally for a light 2 minutes, before adding a dash of soya or oat milk to the amber solution, but this evening he needed something different...something had to change within the fabric of his existence...he couldn't continue like this...stagnant, staring down the barrel ...so why not start with the tea?
He didn't know what was preventing his words from hitting the page. Perhaps some deep-seated inability to reconcile his own feelings about who he was as a person; his hopes, his passions, his dreams...but he knew that reconnection was vital. Perhaps he was just trying too hard. Perhaps that was it.
Wait over, he leaned back against the kitchen counter, lifting the hot mug to his lips. The clear sweet nectar of melon and jasmine sang on his tongue as he gathered his thoughts in the dimly lit recesses of his mind. By the time he took his last sip, the hands had shifted again.
Read...I think I'll read for a while. Yes, that's what I'll do.
He murmured his thoughts aloud; convincing nobody in particular, but it felt good to give voice to something. Ordinarily, the stillness of the night had an allure for him. It brought a sense of calm, a much-needed respite from the busyness of his day. It enhanced his process, aiding in the development of clarity. His thoughts fed off it and fell in line. Ordinarily... But tonight, tonight the silence was overwhelming; oppressive, and consuming.
He made his way back to his desk and sat down. The laptop had gone into sleep mode... was it a sign? He dismissed the thought immediately it entered his head and pressed the little start-up switch, and then flicked open the web browser and started surfing for articles of interest...something...anything.
After sifting through a number of run-of-the-mill submissions, he felt defeated. This was the familiar loop to which he was now accustomed; that he had been stuck in for the past 3 months. It always ended with him dejected, staring at a blank screen, and then hanging his head for a long moment before shutting down for the evening.
He was about to close his laptop when he spotted it.
The title, rather innocuous but eye-catching. The graphic, alluring, evocative. The words spoke to mindfulness, joy, creativity; embued with a depth of character he had not seen in a very long time. He couldn't shake the image nor the words which continued to reverb gently in the chasms of his mind.
Who was this soul behind the persona? He could picture the author: male, early forties, intellectual, philosophical, measured. Without thinking, his fingers found the keyboard and a constructed response. He did not expect an answer - after all, the article was not recent.
He returned to his own thoughts, inspired, and before long his fingers were once again tap-tapping into the night. Words turned into sentences. Sentences into paragraphs. And the pages that followed became the expression of his own re-emergence into the light.
He had been like a sailor, flailing in the dark, desperately seeking to guide his ship back to shore; to outlast the turmoil of the rough seas.
Little did he know that in this particular sea of storms, unable to discern the horizon, waves lashing at the very fringes of his world, demanding his attention and drawing it away from the centre, the creative spark he needed, that he so desperately sought was there all along ... it just required reignition.
The author of that article did respond and a connection was formed. The post that had prompted his resurrection turned out to be
" the drunken ramblings of a lost 25-year-old boy"
spilling words into the ether, an avatar under a pseudonym. Not at all what he had expected to find or appreciate in his evening meander. But at that moment, that article, that 25-year-old boy... an unlikely hero, changed his life...for the better.
And so the small blue luminescent spark that had flickered upon the encounter, now darted from neuron to neuron, picking up pace as it leaped... nay danced across the iridescence of his imagination. Awakening from a long slumber... this was his treasure. He watched it happening as if from afar, yet the occurrence was within; a curiosity to behold.
The spark had ignited and he was a sailor guiding his ship into an ocean of possibilities, a sea of creativity, and this moment, was his St. Elmos's Fire
Sources
the drunken ramblings of a lost 25-year-old boy
Quote used with permission from the author (anon)