The Longing of the Wind

The wind is a peculiar element. It has no rhyme, no reason. It is not seen, rarely heard on its own, has no original smell or taste. It is, by all sensorial perceptions, nonexistent. The wind blows, and only its effect is noticed. One never notices simple air movements. One notices what is moved.

As I was walking tonight, I looked up and saw dark clouds boiling. Brewing storms always awaken in me a unexplainable passion. Maybe it is the grandeur of weather that enraptures me. I honestly do not know. But what strikes me most is the wind. It does not whip around like some devil on a killing spree. It is a constant, gentle breath that intensifies every few seconds, whirling the leaves and rearranging the shifting pattern underneath the trees. With the storm comes change. I appreciate change. I look forward to it. I accept it.

Yet, the wind produces in me a longing that cannot be explained. It causes a deep, heart-felt pull towards... something unexplainable. It is comparable to the longing experienced in music. I saw Brahms Requiem performed last semester. I thought my heart would burst with joy and gladness as I listened to the voices rise and fall. The wind produces something very similar. I felt like my soul longed to glide on the wind, to be free in its wanderings. I assume that's what Beauty does: it strikes a longing for freedom into the heart and soul. Maybe that's why Beauty slayed the Beast. His soul was caught in the struggle for freedom.

Tonight, as I walked, I finally understood that the wind is but a breath. It has no purpose but to breathe into the world, creating movement. Yet, sometimes a breath is all that separates us from the land of death. I want to be a breath.