The Wind Whisperer
The cadence of a cold heart, caught on the cruel, bitter winds of the world. Drifting, endlessly, falling closer to the ground, but never quite reaching. An illusion of flying. If you can...catch me... :)
A story. An open ended question. If you could dance along the riverbanks of each waking morning, what colour would the sunrise paint your eyes? If this were a ballet, our feet would stay upon the ground. But we'd like to think otherwise, wouldn't we? Maybe this story is a pretty good one. Maybe the glove doesn't fit the hand. Maybe the glove just fits.
Your internal remorse – estranged and ... oh, of what else?
It is so difficult to speak of true remorse. Is that my failing as a writer? To only employ fiction, and weak-hearted momentos? I don't think so, but I don't know what it is.
Pain is pain, regardless of why it is felt. That little, I do know.
Egypt, my heart is with you.
(singing self-adapted peace songs to the background of my ramblings)
1 whispers:
It's hard not to be bleak when then world itself is in constant pain.
But it is also in constant joy. There are flowers to smell and books to read. And despite the violence, there is the hope of a better future.
Grace and peace,
Your Kinnery
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