Descending from your flight to madness, still shaky from the breathlessness of the tempest, you step down and plant your feet firmly on palpable ground.
The air pauses in its billowing, the heart trembles, sighing, for a little while, still hopeful, still wondering: where things are found and held--could it have been where you were to have been found, and held, at last?
Is this where the hapless, aimless chase ends?
Somewhere, a clearing. Nearby, a promise. From the soul, a hunger, inchoate. The longing to stay.
Oh, to stay.
But the breeze turns, unannounced--a host of forebodings arrive, whirring with the wind, and the time for trembling, sighing, closes in, like all days do. To love so fiercely is to invite pain in; to love so madly is to lose yourself.
But it was so still in that last second, so still! How a moment--certain moments--can alter time so.
Still, the feet, reluctant, spring into a run. Gently, at first, then swiftly, as always. Only this time, questions weigh the mind, the heart down, willing the eyes to turn toward directions other than forward.
But that slice of brilliance, so lovely and luminous--
Run. Let the broken heart propel you forward, only forward, always forward. Step on those clocks, crush them with your pain. Summon your strength and keep your eyes where they should be--away, away. Light foot, you are good at this.
Run.
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