Thundersoul-my Native American name

I sit by the window in my apartment, on the uncomfortable wicker chair. The straps of my tank top pulling against my sunburned shoulders, and the computer sitting on my bare thighs--also sunburned from the hours spent on the lake.
I am listening to the rain.
And along with it, the thunder. It sounds like my soul feels. Like a big jumbled mass of something--an unsure, unnamed, immaterial substance--that is wrapped and covered in lots of thick fabric, bouncing about--loudly. The substance, like my soul, is heavy. And the fabric does not let it breathe. It is not cotton or linen or cheesecloth. It is something thicker. And it bounces and bumbles around, like the thunder, between the full, sturdy walls of a small space or the large, encumbered mass rolls down stairs that lead to someplace dreary or hopeful--we can't tell yet.
I feel like things have been piling, piling, piling. Nothing has been processed in a while. And I have felt generically sad for the past two days. I miss alone time. Thinking time. Debriefing with myself and God time. Time for me to be analytical and introspective and thoughtful.
I dunno how much good it does, but it keeps the thunder inside my soul from making those sharp, loud, cracking noises. And it keeps the tears at bay.