Wind blows about me, pulling my hair from one side to the other. I’m standing on the fourth story, it’s open, the roof technically, I suppose. There’s a rail but I’m still afraid I might be picked up and blown off. One way to fly I suppose. Not falling, but flying: straight down for a very short time.

I lean over the railing, feet tucked between the pillars, and tip my face towards the sky. The grey clouds that have filled the sky all day cover the stars like a cosmic duvet and the sky is infinitely black. Imagine standing in a space that was infinitely big, and infinitely black and filled with unending wind. Wind that tugs, and pulls, and whispers in your ear. Wind that roars so eloquently that you have to roar along with it.

I love the feeling of the wind on my bare arms. It’s warm and chilly at the same time. It makes me feel invincible and free. It blows the cobwebs from my mind and gives me a clarity that I didn’t know I had within me. Then a split second later it fills me back up. With power, with joy, with whisperings and roars.

I lower my gaze to the¬†silhouettes of the trees that furiously wave to and fro. They’re saying hello. Or goodbye. I can’t tell which. I smile. Move away from the rail, letting go, removing my feet from between the pillars.

I stretch my arm out over the edge and try to capture an eddy of wind in my cupped hand. It is immutable and uncatchable. Wind can only be experienced in the present moment. You can’t save the wind, only the memory of the moment. I pull my arm back in and turn to walk down the stairs.

My moment is over, only the memory remains. The memory itself immutable, untouchable, mine and mine alone. I walk downstairs.

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