It seemed as though the music that danced so elegantly through the otherwise empty courtyard, was indeed guiding the invisible hands of the wind.
I watched in silence as the weight of the remainder – every blank page that lay before me – was cast aside into irrelevance. I saw my pen enveloped, buried, beneath the press of the metaphor unfurling before me.
The reticent cascade of empty sheets resembling more and more, the rise and fall of thunderous surf upon a distant shore.
The warmth of the afternoons’ atmospheric was not that which it had been of late. Nor did it flow in key with the phenomenon before me.
Beneath vast blue skies, dashed only sparingly with long angular strokes of white, the air had been arid and heady; like the cleanest fumes to ever have burned. Instilling not the oppressive choking sensation expected, but rather more of an ambient feeling; akin to floating in the sweet tides of some dream.
But this weather, so similar in raiment, was given more willingly to the inclinations of one who’d forgotten how to care, the one who was lost. The one who had given up. You could only perceive the difference if you knew where to look.
These were no longer states of mind that I could call my own. Regardless, I wasn’t any further enlightened as to exactly what it was that was happening here.
It seemed somehow, as though I should have been.
I couldn’t decide whether or not it mattered to me.
Once more I lay my pen down, willing to let the pages fall as they might.
Willing to see it swept away.