Feathers in the Wind

Every once in awhile, one simple thing will magnify itself: time will stop and all that matters is the tiny grains, the delicate patterns that define the intricate design of this one simple thing. The simple rhythms that define the moment; whether that be the frail skeleton of a whisper or a loud definite ringing, sure and strong. And at these moments my breath catches in my throat and I can hardly bear to stand so openly face to face with this mystery: the rigid lines of the world around me begin to blur and fade away, and nothing matters but my awe for the beautiful intricacy of something so incredibly simple.

Time loves to play tricks on me, to lull me into a false sense of security before shocking me into reality, pushing and pulling my poor self in a million directions until I can hardly bear it any longer: and after a series of explosions, I find myself dazed and confused, chasing down the tiny pieces that escaped. Yet the pieces stray as feathers in a wind; circling in cruel- humored and vicious cycles around my head, tempting and deceiving. When I find myself lucky enough to have caught a piece, I hold on far too tightly, fearing to let go, lest I lose it once more. For the beauty of a feather in hand is far more cherished than that of a million others floating in the wind, impossibly out of reach.

And all my time seems to be spent searching for the one simple thing that isolates me from the complex world around me, something for which I can honestly proclaim: nothing else matters.