One of my usual ramblings, this time its about the wind.
|A single tear flows rapidly from my retina to my toes.
What colour is the wind? When you whistle does its colour flow? Why do I cry? I hate my life, but I've always hated that - why start crying about it now? I love life, just not mine, I can see beauty in the world, I see it everywhere I go, but I can only destroy it. What colour is the wind, I've asked this question many times, but I've gotten no reply. I used to listen to the wind, admiring it for its grace and majesty, but mainly for the mystery, the way no one could catch it, the way it felt upon your skin, ruffled up your hair, the soft gentle smell it left on your nose. Yes, I've always loved the wind, but now the wind makes me sad, makes me cry. I'm crying now. I can just imagine the headlines: "Roosters Still On The Piss". And, in a small section down the bottom of the page: "Local Idiot Electrocutes Herself By Crying Onto Computer". Mind you, even then, at my tragic end, I doubt I'll make the papers. Some say if you listen to the wind in exactly the right place, you can here the voices it collects as it travels. I used to listen to the wind, I used to feel it around me, I used to touch it, hear it and even see it. Why is something not possible just because others can't see it, I never had any friends, I was shy, the wind was my friend. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the music it plays, or perhaps I was the only one lucky enough to hear that. Am I now being punished for the wonders I witnessed in my youth? I'd like to show you the world but it wont fit in my pocket. I could flood the planet with the tears I weep, but I don’t know why I shed them. Why does the colour blue always mean sad? Does that mean the heavens are sad? I saw a small boy today crying at the death of a feral pigeon. I find it sad that one so young is already that knowledgeable toward death. At that age I couldn’t even urinate by myself. What colour is the wind? The unexpected question with no possible answer. What would you tell a blind child if he asked you that question? Or would you just ignore him, pretend you can’t see him, he can’t see you, or maybe he’s pretending too, we’re all blind, only those who are willing to take chances will ever see the truth, me, I’m too scared to try. What colour are the eyes of all your friends, do you know, I know I don’t, eyes are windows to the soul and I know I’m not ready to face the truth. Why do we fear what is inevitable? It’s not death I fear, but life, what if I actually live through it, what then? Do I grow old and wither away like a fig, or do I drop away from view like a wilting flower that never smelt good. I’d like to think that the wind is blue, it’s nice to think that it’s sad too, that way I’m not alone any more. A single tear is a beautiful curse, representing almost everything, but there’s always one thing I’d like to know, What colour is the wind?