To the wind.

I tossed my hair to the wind —the cool over back and down arms and into the night and thoughts and all of the pockets and ditches and rows —giving hopes and dreams and coming back a traveler. The places were far, and all held the promise of new and more with same and still. Yet the hope lived on and those things that looked and were and seemed had. Shifted? Almost unaware. Who was not quite ready to be caught up in it all? (Glad to hear of another’s pining.)

The tables were turning slow and at once. There was no time for breath or things. Too much had been said. In the wrong way. To the wrong person. To the wrong people. It was arrows into the night striking nowhere and everywhere and misplaced and hopeful and clanging as they hit the ground. Some suspended in air with purpose and to build. But these homes did not belong and these hands were not to hold. There was no steadiness. Sometimes things seemed too good to be true, and much was mysterious -the slipping through the night. Feeling peace.

Finally. The dark was less frightening. The solitude less cool and less choice and more round three and four and wanted and forgotten and pushed through and fought and accepted and loved and received. It was all coming to an end. The lack of trust and hope.

Not all days were resounding victories. Some were less than a vacation, more than a nap, and all the while the movement was constantly forward. There was not much more to do than the thing at hand. Things not done. Un-reach. In more than a day. Each moment had its place and would be sped up for no one. Each moment had to come and the next. One of these times or moments would suddenly have a different feel. Altogether new. Not yet and coming.

So little had crept into reality. So little had made its way through. But all of it. Real. It would be — ultimately and of necessity true. And the best. And the wait. And the culmination. It would be all of these things, and how much hope was to be stepped into —walked in like steps to a bath, crept in foot by foot, submerging to the sense of it and being lifted from feet, flying and dying and releasing and receiving and the burst of energy and the push of life.

The Sound, Gina Renee 2020

ink on paper, photographic edit