Watching lightning from a high-rise

Watching lightning from the perch of a high-rise, you're granted a balcony seat to nature's most anarchic theatre. The city below hums with its usual circuitry - cars, streetlights, shops, people. But above it all, the sky stages a performance that refuses choreography.

Each jagged flash showcases that the universe has no interest in being domesticated, no desire to be tamed by our grids and schedules.

From this vantage, one senses a communion with raw, uncontrollable energy. Lightning is nature's punctuation mark, striking through the sky with an authority that tut-tuts our fragile sense of control. It is both terrifying and liberating: terrifying because it reminds us of our smallness; liberating because it frees us from the illusion that everything can be managed.


The high-rise becomes your contemplative monastery, its walls framing the white streaks as sky calligraphy. Watching the sky rip itself and then instantaneously heal, you're watching tandav in peace. In its brief brilliance, we are given in to awe.