So it’s gone—all gone.
Like the wind.
And with the ferocity of a hurricane—it's gone.
And like the wind—ungraspable.
And it's impossible to stand up in the face of it.
As if it could be withstood!
As if it could be held!
In the teeth of it.
As if.
Vanity!
Vanity!
Pretence.
Imagination—fantasy.
Pointlessness.
‘Help me?’ I murmur—I don’t have the strength to cry out.
I listen, but no reply.
Just the sound of the mocking, blasting air.
And I’m knocked down by the unfurling wind—flattened by the endless noise of its thrashing as it separates the husks from the grain, and carries them away in its flailing arms.
And all it leaves behind is the bruised grain.
Vanity!
Vanity!
As if it could be held?
The wind is too fierce.
Only in silence—unmoving, quiet, listening silence could the whispers of anxiety be heard, be cared for, be nurtured, be held towards.
Only then could the needed tenderness fold its arms around the fears that burn so deep and line me with their scars.
But there is no silence, no pause in the clamour of the wind, and the hurricane unwinds and carries the husks that shield my anxiety and leaves me with the naked grains of fear and dread.
It only came to make me suffer.
Exposing me, injuring me further, making me call out into the wind.
And so it passes.
And leaves no trace of itself.
And is gone— all gone.
And as I glimpse the last remaining, fluttering husks as they toss about in disarray and fall over the edge of the horizon, I shiver with the awfulness of myself.
