walking in the wind
The wind is gusting; tumbling across the open fields so recently shorn of crop. I miss the tall stalks of corn, I miss the undulating waves sweeping over and through the fields as the ears yield to the breeze, sweeping down the hillside and breaking onto the path, becoming nothing but upright stalks once more – no spray, no splash, no swell, the dream of a sea. But today the wind has an intensity and a chill that I have not felt since spring. It is invigorating, refreshing, calming.
The trees rustle. Shoots of grass alongside the path bend and flap and dance. Dry earth shifts around my feet.
The wind blows around me. Cooling and drying my skin, scouring it clean of the world. And it scours the world clean of itself. Everything carried away on the breeze, eroded to nothing but pure, beautiful dust. And it blows through me, into me, troubling the folds of my clothes and the legs of my trousers, enveloping me, lifting me up, taking me with it.
I am there, in this magical desert, this place of stark cleanliness. A shimmering white plain, the ultimate victory of entropy, a permanent cool breeze parting to let me through even as it whittles away at me. It is here that I feel alive, it is here that I can breath. Gone is the suffocating weight of everything, a kingdom of stuff that wreathes me in expectation and desire, wraps me in disappointment, chokes me with lies and selfishness and so much more, so many things and contraptions and inventions and agendas and love and hate and good and evil and people that the air is clogged, coagulated with it all, stuff just materialising in my mouth, in my windpipe, in my lungs and I cannot breathe. I cannot.
But not here. The wind blows and it is good and sharp and fresh. It speaks of a world yet to come or a world long gone. There is the hope of possibility without the gnawing disappointment of the actual, the failed. I breathe deeply, taking in the cool air, stilling its force within me. And I feel nothing but warmth inside. The deep core of me beating anew, bringing me the sensation of life, of alive.
The air over my skin keeps blowing; I stride through it feeling immortal.
The trees rustle. Shoots of grass alongside the path bend and flap and dance. Dry earth shifts around my feet.
The wind blows around me. Cooling and drying my skin, scouring it clean of the world. And it scours the world clean of itself. Everything carried away on the breeze, eroded to nothing but pure, beautiful dust. And it blows through me, into me, troubling the folds of my clothes and the legs of my trousers, enveloping me, lifting me up, taking me with it.
I am there, in this magical desert, this place of stark cleanliness. A shimmering white plain, the ultimate victory of entropy, a permanent cool breeze parting to let me through even as it whittles away at me. It is here that I feel alive, it is here that I can breath. Gone is the suffocating weight of everything, a kingdom of stuff that wreathes me in expectation and desire, wraps me in disappointment, chokes me with lies and selfishness and so much more, so many things and contraptions and inventions and agendas and love and hate and good and evil and people that the air is clogged, coagulated with it all, stuff just materialising in my mouth, in my windpipe, in my lungs and I cannot breathe. I cannot.
But not here. The wind blows and it is good and sharp and fresh. It speaks of a world yet to come or a world long gone. There is the hope of possibility without the gnawing disappointment of the actual, the failed. I breathe deeply, taking in the cool air, stilling its force within me. And I feel nothing but warmth inside. The deep core of me beating anew, bringing me the sensation of life, of alive.
The air over my skin keeps blowing; I stride through it feeling immortal.
posted by paul at 3:42 pm
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