Sunday, March 05, 2006


And then the wind blew softly, at first. Isn't that how it always begins? That faint scent on soft wind air. The season doesn't matter; it could be spring or summer or in the South -- fall or winter, but always her tender tendrils whip about your face as you turn your head up to a sky more static-y white/gray than anything else. Not unlike the color your watercolor brush turns after several lighter color dip, dip, dips.

Trouble is, the wind never stays the same. Its invisible strength can be felt as the thunder particles crash, in the distance now, but not for long. And in your heart you feel the energy building and you don't know how you feel.. maybe angry or disappointed .. maybe reflective or saddened .. and there isn't any real tangible reason why, almost as if the sizzling air has cut even to your very core and read your inner thoughts. The thoughts that haunt you enough that you push them down deep inside, so you can giggle and say "hiya, how ya doin?" without looking phony, although inside, truly inside, you feel those other feelings, the dark side if you will.

Stronger still the trees bend to a will not their own, sometimes snapping and sending wayward branches down the street. Your hearing is muted to the other everyday noises as the draft grows cold, colder, colder still. Your breath turns white and you shiver involuntarily, from that tingle down your back. The thunder is right overhead and startles you as you lean over the edge of your balcony or deck. The sky is darker, even darker than a crisp cold deadly night. But you're drawn to stay outside, as the first mists begin to land on your cheeks and to dot your hair and skin in super small little half bubbles where much of life begins.

The wind begins to pick up again, gusting sheets of water, no longer called rain by the meteorologists, who stand on the news reporting the conditions in yellow slickers, and eyes half closed as it pours. You also feel your negative deep seated feelings release into the cold nevermore as ravens huddle under what tendrils of leaves remain. Your release is full, not unlike orgasm, but fuller, more satisfying. As if you'll never be lonely or hurt again. The rain falls in pathways down your cheeks and the salty consistency makes it difficult to separate emotion from nature. It all cascades the same way, sighs unheard, now uttered into a cacophony of H2O meets asphalt meets slashing typhoon.

The wind tapers off and the sky, with nothing more to give, closes up. And empty you feel so that relief spills within, before loneliness can find you. Before fear and anger and hurt and everything not of joy can enter. Relief gives you rest and the wind dries your cheeks, your eyes, your hair, though doused, is relaxed.

It isn't an end, only a means to a neverending cycle. And you're holding on until next time.


Blogger grumblefish said...

Interesting post! I feel like a cat burglar- I've re-read it a few
times, like I'm casing the joint.
I like the release for its own sake
thought (folks wind up with burdens
that they don't really know how to
either carry or divest themselves
of) And metaphorical explanations
are at least as good as any other,
as descriptions go. That resonates
with me!

3/10/2006 12:33 AM  

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