Underneath the kiss of the sun, I taste every lie that it's told me. Every empty promise it's made. Everyday it screamed for hopes, dreams and imaginations only to leave me as you would an empty bottle of Vodka after a night you can't remember.
Taken into the soft caress of the breeze, I feel every dream it's stolen. Every thought, every story, every imaginative word that's been uttered before me beats against my face, and sends my hair in all directions. For what is a thought or experience not shared? A lost story. A story never told or learned from but simply left in the mind of a lone individual who took it to their grave, after suffering in it for years.
The wind carries those stories.
Do the untold stories of the wind burn on the olden lips of those who've left without telling them?
Is the wind the hero or the villain for stealing the tales of the oppressed and repressed?
Will the paranoia and fear that dance around my heart at night one day follow me to the grave? Will it seap through the mud and into a river, where a mother will use it to wash clothes for her son? Will the hope and dreams I carry in my mind one day become the silver lining on a grey cloud, to brighten another girl's day?
It's nearly spring. If I could describe my currently mental state I'd say I'm on the silver lining of a rather grey cloud. Spring arrives by not a date, but the presence. The presence of spring, the sun, the birds the new found glimmer in the eyes of people emerging for the first time in months.
Spring is almost here. We're all on the silver lining.