grab the wind
journal entry/spoken word poem/you get the drill by now/ for august 17th, 11:58PM
how do I take care of others when I can barely remember that I exist? to wash the dish that’s been in the sink for a week. My dear, how do I take care of you when I am still fighting to be alive? To put my hand on the wheel and press the gas and fly down the road. My hand’s flying out the window, grasping the air, reaching everywhere and just desperately trying to grasp where the wind went.
when I was a child, I would stand there and let the wind beat against my chest, and I’d hold my palms like little cups, so I could collect its airy liquid in my hands. I’d let the wind try to knock me back, so I could feel like I was flying. I did everything I could to reach Neverland, but I never did make it there. Anyways,
my hand’s out the window, and I’m reaching and trying. the air is flying through my fingertips, in those little crevices that are big enough for ants and oxygen and sunlight to creep through.
so, I close my hand into a fist and I fight back against the elements. I punch the sky, and my knuckles burn, and slowly, I release my fingers one by one until I’ve built a wall cemented together by the will to catch the wind and be fearless again.
so, I reach, I reach again, and I’m not grasping, I’m collecting. I’ve paid my dues and I am fucking collecting. please, God, I’ve done my time, let me have my wind. Let me rise up above all this shit and begin again. the light turns green, I’m speeding down the road again because I’ve spotted her, and finally, she turns around and greets me like an old friend. Says,
I remember lifting you off the sidewalk when you were little, I remember pushing you higher on the swing when you were growing, and I remember tickling your shoulders and brushing your hair away from your face so you could see the beauty all around you.
she fills my hand with gusts of air. at times, it’s like pushing back against a toppling wave. but every time, I keep my hand out and it’s unwavering. I’m not afraid of the pain anymore, and the wave comes crashing down without wiping my hand out and sending it back to shore. no more back to shore. it is my time to reclaim the wind as my friend, my guide towards fresh soil.