The Lightning and the Thunder

A Story About Seeing, Feeling, and Finding Your Way Back to Yourself

The Gap Between Flash and Boom

When you were a child, someone probably taught you this trick: Count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder. Divide by five. That’s how many miles away the storm is.

A game. A way to feel safe. A way to measure the distance between you and danger.

But there’s something else there. Something about perception. Something about the space between seeing something and understanding what it means.

The lightning comes first. Sudden. Unmistakable. It illuminates everything for a split second — the sky, the landscape, the shape of things you couldn’t see a moment before. And then it’s gone.

The thunder follows later. It rumbles. It shakes. It takes its time arriving.

That gap — that pause — is where something important lives.

Think about it. This is the space between having an experience and knowing what it means. Between feeling something profound and being able to put it into words. Between the moment that changes you and the moment you can explain why.

The Loneliness of Seeing Things Differently

Have you ever had a moment that changed you? A conversation that shifted everything? A realization that hit you like a wave? A quiet morning when something suddenly made sense that never had before?

What was that? Did that really happen?

Why can’t I explain it to anyone?

Why does it feel like no one else sees what I see?

This is one of the loneliest feelings in the world. You’ve been somewhere — maybe not physically, but somewhere. You’ve seen something. You’ve felt something. And when you try to share it, the words feel empty. The people you love look at you with concern, or confusion, or patience that feels like pity.

They haven’t seen what I’ve seen.

This isn’t just about near-death experiences or spiritual awakenings. This is about the quiet moments. The small revelations. The sudden clarity that changes how you see your life, your work, your relationships, yourself.

It’s the feeling of being the only one who noticed the lightning.

Everyone else only heard the thunder.

The Weight of Quiet Nights

For years, I struggled with sleep.

Not because of nightmares. Not because of insomnia. But because of the stillness. Because of what happens when the world goes quiet and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

There are two versions of this struggle.

One is the dread. The fear that comes in the dark. The questions that surface when the distractions fade: What am I doing? Why am I here? How much time do I have?

The other is the opposite. The refusal to let go. The urge to stay awake because your mind is alive with ideas. Because you’re afraid that if you close your eyes, you’ll lose something precious. The thought that slips away. The insight that fades. The inspiration that might not return.

I can’t sleep. I’ll forget. I’ll lose it. It won’t come back.

This is the paradox of the creative mind. You dread sleep because you don’t want to face the void. You dread sleep because you don’t want to lose the fire. Both are fears of losing something — either control or inspiration.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

The ideas that matter will find their way back to you.

The Ocean and the Fish

Imagine the universe as an ocean. Vast. Deep. Full of life.

Ideas are like fish swimming in that ocean. They’re everywhere. You can’t see them all, but they’re there. Sometimes they jump out of the water and you catch a glimpse of something extraordinary. Sometimes you sit still and one swims right up to you.

Silence helps you find these fish. It calms the water. It slows the waves. It creates the stillness where you can see what’s beneath the surface.

And sometimes, you catch a big one.

The excitement of a new idea. The thrill of something original. The sense of discovery that makes the world feel fresh and full of possibility.

And sometimes, you lose it. You forget. You can’t find it again. You search and search and it’s gone. The fish got away.

Losing an idea can feel devastating. You’re left with the memory of something brilliant that you might never catch again.

But here’s what I’ve learned: If an idea is good enough, it will resurface. Maybe not the same fish. But one of equal or greater value.

The ocean is vast. The fish are plentiful. The universe is abundant. If you caught one once, you can catch another. And if the idea was truly important — truly necessary — it will find its way back to you.

You just have to trust the process.

The Art That Doesn’t Explain Itself

Have you ever watched a film that didn’t make sense? Read a book that felt like a dream? Walked through an art gallery and felt completely lost?

When I was younger, I hated art galleries.

I hated them because anything could mean anything. I would walk through rooms of paintings and sculptures, and I would feel frustrated. What am I supposed to see here? What’s the correct interpretation? What does the artist want me to feel?

I wanted answers. I wanted clarity. I wanted to understand.

And the gallery gave me nothing but questions.

So I hated it.

But as an adult, I love art for the exact same reason.

Now I see the freedom in it. The invitation. The permission to bring yourself to the work and find what you need there. The painting doesn’t tell you what to think. It asks you what you think. It holds up a mirror and lets you see yourself reflected in the colors and shapes and shadows.

That’s not a weakness. That’s the whole point.

The Mystery We’re All Living In

There’s something about art that operates on a deeper level. Something dreamlike. Something that doesn’t follow the rules of logic or linear storytelling.

Characters appear and disappear. Reality warps. Things that seem important are never explained. Things that seem irrelevant become central.

A lot of people don’t get the weird. But that’s half the point.

The best art — the work that stays with you — doesn’t offer easy answers. It doesn’t tell you what to think. It invites you to find your own meaning.

And when the artist explains their work, something is lost. When someone says, “This is what I meant,” suddenly the possibilities close off. The interpretation becomes limited. Someone else’s understanding becomes more valuable than your own.

But the truth is, meaning is not in the thing itself. It’s in the space between the thing and the person experiencing it.

It’s the gap between the lightning and the thunder. The flash of perception, and the understanding that follows.

And sometimes, it takes a long time for the thunder to arrive.

The Vision and the Integration

When you have a moment — a real moment — of clarity, of understanding, of something shifting inside you, it often feels isolating.

People don’t get me.

They haven’t seen what I’ve seen.

This is the loneliest sentence in the human language. It’s the feeling of being the only one who noticed the lightning — while everyone else only heard the thunder.

Here’s what’s interesting: this can be your greatest strength and your greatest weakness.

The weakness is obvious. You feel alone. You feel misunderstood. You can’t explain what happened because there aren’t words for it. You can’t make people understand because they haven’t lived it. You start to doubt yourself. Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I’m just crazy.

The strength is subtler. The strength is that you’ve seen something. You’ve glimpsed something real. And whether or not anyone else can see it yet, that doesn’t change the truth of what you experienced.

The lightning struck. The thunder will come later.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not in a way that anyone else will ever fully understand.

But it came. It was real. And it changed you.

The Gardener’s Patience

I’ve lost count of the ideas I’ve lost.

Brilliant concepts that I was certain would change everything. Flashes of insight that felt like lightning in my brain. Dreams that were so vivid, so clear, so full of meaning — until I woke up and they dissolved like morning mist.

For years, this devastated me. I would lie awake trying to hold onto them, trying to write them down, trying to make them stay. I would feel the loss like a death, like I’d let something precious slip through my fingers.

But I’ve learned to trust the process.

If an idea is good enough, it will resurface. Not the same fish — that fish is gone. But another one. One of equal or greater value.

This is the gardener’s patience. This is the meditator’s calm. This is the artist’s faith.

The ocean is infinite. The fish are always there. The ideas never stop coming. The lightning never stops striking.

You just have to be there when it happens. And you have to trust that the thunder will follow.

The Gallery Is Always Open

I think the people who create the work we love — the art that changes us, the ideas that shift our perspective — they understand something fundamental about the human experience.

They understand that we’re all living in a mystery. That the things that matter most are the things we can’t fully explain. That meaning is not something you find — it’s something you create.

They understand the lightning and the thunder.

The flash comes first. The meaning comes later. And the gap between them is where we live — where we create, where we struggle, where we grow.

It’s also where we feel alone. Because when the lightning strikes, only you see it. Only you know what you saw.

But here’s the thing: the thunder will come. The explanation will follow. The interpretation will find its audience. The vision will eventually make sense to someone else.

It might not make sense to everyone. It might not make sense in your lifetime. But the fish will return. The idea will resurface. The lightning will strike again.

And the thunder — that rumble that follows — will shake the ground for everyone else to feel.

What This Means for You

Maybe you’re reading this and thinking, I know exactly what they mean.

Or maybe you’re thinking, I don’t get it. I’m not sure what any of this has to do with me.

Either way, that’s okay.

If you’ve ever felt misunderstood. If you’ve ever had an experience you couldn’t explain. If you’ve ever had a dream that felt more real than waking life. If you’ve ever lost an idea and felt like something precious slipped through your fingers.

If you’ve ever looked at a painting and felt something you couldn’t name. If you’ve ever watched a film and felt like it was speaking directly to you, even though you couldn’t explain why. If you’ve ever been afraid of the quiet, or afraid of losing the fire.

Then you understand. Even if you didn’t have the words for it.

Sometimes you do have the words for it, and that’s almost crazier from societal perspective. But that’s the point of art. The intention is to connect with the world. Sometimes it’s a perfect storm of exactly how you’re feeling and that’s okay to feel. You’re not crazy for getting emotional from a film, book, or even TV Series. You’re human and that’s the whole point.

The lightning struck. You saw something. Maybe you can explain it. Maybe you can’t. Maybe you’re still waiting for the thunder.

That’s okay.

The vision was real. The experience happened. The art is alive in you. And whether or not anyone else gets it — whether or not you ever fully understand it yourself — it changed you.

And maybe that’s the point.

A Final Thought

Think of the people you love. The ones who make you feel seen. The ones who don’t need you to explain everything. The ones who sit with you in the gap between the flash and the boom.

They don’t always understand. They don’t always have to.

They’re just there. Waiting for the thunder. Trusting that it will come.

The gallery is open. The art is waiting. The meaning is yours to find.

Count the seconds.

The thunder is on its way.

Whenever you feel alone in what you’ve seen, remember: The lightning still struck. The flash was real. And the thunder — that rumble that follows — will shake the ground for everyone else to feel.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.

Keep watching. Keep waiting. Keep creating.

The fish will return.

Originally published on Medium. It lives here now — new essays land in the Journal first.