I feel the movement of the wind, it creeps between my fingers, transforms my blue dress making it sway like sea water.
melancholy hits me, I close my eyes and breathe distant air. melancholy of places never seen before, of lights and colors; I feel them under my skin without ever having lived them. the murmur of the wind among the leaves becomes more intense, it cradles my faded memories.
I feel consumed.
- but who am I? a wrapper. an empty, jagged shell. I do not know. I don't know who I am.
a muffled melody, I barely feel it
and my body becomes stone.
and within that body of stone the pain that was awakens.
and I feel it squeeze my breath, hold it, scratch it, and my chest burns, torn and wants to explode, but it doesn't.
it was, but it is no longer.
I open my eyes, the sky clears up, I feel it calling me.
there is a perfume, when it is no longer night, but it is not yet morning. there is a tangible scent that the wind carries with it and in silence
I
I hear
peace.
and in the stillness of that juncture which is no longer night, but not yet morning, the words of the wind fly free.
the air is crisp, the grass wet, the trees sway and I seem to hear them talking. I seem to see them dance.
the wind is becoming, it is change.
the wind blows, while the sun rises on the horizon, brash, alive, passionate. it blows hard enough to lift my feet off the ground. and while the world still sleeps I fly over thoughts, dreams,
I fly
light
like
a
butterfly
towards the sky.
I become
of wind.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 