Weekend riding.
From James Victore’s Feck Perfuction
The ever present feeling of passing time. How the wind blows outside my bedroom window, pushing and pulling leaves from their branches, sweeping clouds of dust from blankets of viridian grass. Who I was and who I might become.
If I will ever again not have more than enough, or even enough. Her eyes and my reflection within them. The shelter of the weekend and the museum of sounds and lights from outside her apartment window.
How circumstances change us, pulling at us like the wind does to the leaves and dust and stone.
I know much about that wind. That unforeseeable and often times clamorous force that pushes us in one direction before pulling us in another. The sudden absence of a loved one. An accident on the road. Lost luggage. A serendipitous encounter. We so badly want control over everything in our lives that, when the wind comes loudest, we hold tightly to our branches. We shiver.
This is the gift the wind gives us. It is the reason it blows at us strongest when we’ve become otherwise accustomed to our circumstance.
The wind is an opportunity to go somewhere new, be something more, to expand and grow and stretch our former selves out and up. To dust ourselves off and move ever forward. Wherever the wind goes, we go.
She is a wind. She howls through the night just before sleep. When my limbs are paralyzed in comfort and my mind is focusing in. I feel her clearly, like fingertips brushing across an arm. And I think to myself, she is a wind.
