Brewing a storm

I am an impractical Man! Insolent, Often Incorrigible. Mostly easy. Meticulous, yet erratic. I have lived too long, yet have not lived at all. Tormented, yet, happy.
The woods behind my apartment brace the wind as they embrace the sullen grey monsoon sky. I stand on guard, stupefied. I wish, I could brew a cup of tea and soak in the brilliance in the sombre scene.
I would probably watch as the leaves that went in dry, lifeless, whistle an aroma out the pot they are agitated in. I wonder how that would feel. But I am afraid the steam would settle on my walls.
Oh yeah! I seek solitude, yet surrender to my walls.
It pours outside and the trees that held the sullen grey sky just a moment ago, are now suffering the storm. I watch, mesmerised, yet on guard. I watch as it pours, and yet I stand thirsty.
Oh yeah, I am sheltered, yet exposed.
I light up a cigarette . The tip turns grey, scaly. I flick and I watch as emotion, wonder, ideation alike, collected thus far get deposited into an ashtray, awaiting disposal.
As dusk settles, and my guard drops, I quench my thirst, and as the bottle empties, it brews up the storm I stood in awe of earlier, within.
the guard that held wonder, has now set emotions free.
Yeah, I am broken, yet whole.