11/24/24

I have prayed for months for this stagnancy to come to a close. For the stillness to be interrupted by chatter and chaos that will throw me into throes; onto my toes and running towards a sense of foggy possibility. You reap what you sow, and I have weaved delicate dreams into the earth, searching for a wholeness and a warmth beyond the bitter cold. A chill that eats away, freezing and seething and enormously selfish. The air has been silent and hushed of wind, so much so that the blades of grass no longer bend. The trees refuse to quiver, and the clouds hang lethargically in place. It is dreary without the movement, time blurring dull as though it has not been jostled awake.

The old iron of the fence gate creaks in the breeze, gasping out that it lives. That its rusted red is sign of age, but not true deprecation. It has become consumed by every lesson it has ever learned, swaddled in that safety. It creaks in the wind, and the forest underbrush sweeps at my shins, and the tree canopies sing in a symphony of their limbs. The fallen, rotting leaves are whipped towards the sky in the cacophony, swirling like a cyclone and spared of its venom. The gust billows softly in my hair, but presses on my back, urging me forward, my legs spinning and pounding and thrusting and bounding off of the ground like I have thrown myself to the mercy of a steep, sudden ridge. Time is no longer merged, but crisp and clear at the edges. It calls me to play attention to every one of its seconds, to inspect all of its treasures. The wind breaths for me, in and out, while my lungs ache for a break an everlasting chase; but there is no lull, and only change to embrace.