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the wind is blowing harshly outside. but it seems so soft. I'll take off my sweater and slip through the sliding glass door. it blows like I thought; softly at first. then harsher. my hair twists and curls, with nothing to hold it back. my heart aches with an emotion I hate feeling. the feeling of nostalgia. a need. a need to make memories, to forget your old ones and to be out, doing something "fun," something worthwhile, something TV-commercial-esque. you can't just stand here, staring out at the fading horizon, and be happy. listening to the distant music coming from a person's car, the barking of a neighbour's dog. you want to rip your heart out and stomp on it, just so you can stop feeling. so you can stop wishing for things that won't happen. I'll revel in the cold. it happens sometimes like that. I'll want to feel cold. I'll need it. I'll change into the thinnest clothing I have and go outside, and stand there for hours, shivering, freezing, but never cold enough. I challenge myself. "I bet you can't stay out for two more minutes," and I do. soon it's two more. and two more. and just two more, until two has turned into twenty and twenty has turned into sixty. I wonder how I'm going to make things more worthwhile. more "fun." I think about the upcoming summer. the warm nights, meant to be spent with a young lover, staring up at the stars from his rooftop, dreaming of your future. imagining things that will never come to be, and in the back of your mind you know it, but you think them anyway. ignorance is truly bliss. I'm thinking of whom I want that person to be and a million people race through my mind. and at one time, perhaps it would stop, automatically, on one person, but it doesn't. and that hurts worse than if the person I stopped on lived 3,000 miles away. it hurts because I have no one. I stare up at the blue sky. it's not baby blue anymore, but it's not navy yet either. it's just blue. a cornflower blue, perhaps darker. the clouds intrigue me, as do all things that are not of completely solid being. smoke, for instance. I stare up at the clouds, imagining what it'd be like to be one. constantly moving, wandering. to have the wind as my guide and the sun as my lover. and at night I'd have affairs with all the stars, and sometimes I'd spend hours listening to the moon retell the secrets of the night. I'd visit all different parts of the world and look down on all the different people, just like they deserve; to be looked down upon. the mountains would rip me apart like a lost romantic interest, but I'd reform like everyone does, eventually. and when I sorrowed, the world would know. the ignorant would carry umbrellas to protect themselves, but the worthy would dance in my tear drops. all night I'd watch the other clouds pass by. we'd have light conversation, and decide what sort of weather to make the next morning. whenever I'd feel angry, I'd slam into other clouds, and lightning would fall, and if my aim were correct, I'd kill. whenever I'd feel sad, I'd hide the sun, and people would be downcast. people would mourn the loss of a potentially beautiful day, but I wouldn't be blamed. they wouldn't figure it's my fault. I could disappear when I didn't want to be seen, and change shape to entertain the innocent young. I'd feed off the ocean and never die. if I felt wrathful on a hot summer day, I'd float over to the other side of the country and leave the people to simmer in the sun. if I were a cloud, I'd have true freedom. there would be no crime and no restraints. the sky wouldn't be the limit. I'd have no limits. I'd be a wanderer, a renegade; I wouldn't need anyone and everyone would need me, and I'd be happy. |
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