The Wind

So like I said in my last post, I have a lot of ideas and even pieces that I’ve finished that I just haven’t gotten around to posting for one reason or another. Here’s a little something I returned to that I began in the summer.

…

It’s just past eleven pm. I can hear the wind singing outside my window. I don’t know what to say about it. It speaks for itself. I can’t decipher its emotion. All I know is that it sounds passionate, almost desperate—and that’s why I like it.

It sounds the way my chest feels as I sit in regret, staring at the clock, knowing another day has been spent. It sounds like the way I feel when I think about where I want to be and where I really am—who I want to be and who I am.

It sounds like me.

It sounds like the power and vastness that I wish I could embody, harness, become, and be absorbed by—heedless to everything except for the furious passion that has swallowed me whole.

It sounds like a lament for the sleeping—the people who are unaware, who aren’t listening, who let life pass them by.

It is a call. It is a hand reaching out and grabbing me without touch. It is the melody, and my heartbeat is the rhythm.

It is the protagonist and I am the side character—no—the audience member, raving to friends who are interested enough to listen but apathetic enough to forget about it once I’m done.

It is a dying language, and I am of the few remaining who can still understand it.

It is the voice that awakes my soul—for they cry at the same frequency, like sea creatures finding each other in the depths of the ocean with only our voices, inaudible to other species’ ears.

It is the song, and I am the instrument—not creating it myself, just allowing—welcoming—it to pass through me.

It is a wave that floods through the trees and over rooftops.

It is the train in the night whose whistle beckons me to follow, to run alongside the tracks and mount one of the cars as it keeps moving.

And believe me, I want to.

Yet, here I sit, still.

~7/8/17

Little something for Inktober :)

“Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.” ― Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within