The rustling of the winds is rattling against the windows. The servile movements of the curtains, the incessant chattering of the trees, and the inexplicable silence of the clouds seem to coalesce with my body, with my rhythm. They all have something to say, yes, even the mute skies, and I seem to understand every gust of the winds.
Where should I stay? Is it here inside this room? Is it beside the windows, where within an inch or two, I can embrace the breeze, the hum of air, the deafening silence of the blue sky? Where is my peace?
As I comprehend the mumbling of the trees, I can also recognise the direction the winds are heading to. We’re going to places where we have gone before. Only this time, in a different way.
Ahh… That’s where you’re going! Can you bring me with you?
No, we can’t. First, you are not a leaf from a tree, a speck of dust, or a feather. We cannot carry you, we can only talk to you.
I was not surprised at all. The winds are selfish, brutally insensitive. They only let the things they love to be with to go with them- And I’m not one of those things. But how come they make the trees talk, the birds soar, the curtains dance, the windows shut, the doors ramble, and my mind fly? How do they do that? They are selfish and yet they lead.
They are free. They can go to places as they please. They do not invite others, however, but they bring them unknowingly.
They are selfish, yet they are loving. They go beneath a fledgeling’s wings. They never leave them until they are old, until they die. As they die, their inexistence is blown again by the wind; they whisper that once, they loved a bird.
And no, they are not selfish at all. Sometimes they are mistakenly labeled too.
And so I asked them again, But why wouldn’t you want to bring me where you’re going? Don’t you love me to be your companion?
We just can’t. We’re not commanded to take you. We’re not even strong enough to carry you. And you might get hurt if we force it.
They are not just loving, after all. They are also caring. They have a lot of sense, too.
Don’t the trees get tired of talking? Don’t their leaves give up from holding on as the winds drag them? Don’t the birds feel insecure as they lift them beneath their wings? Don’t the skies feel compelled to talk, as they watch what the winds are doing?
Behold, they are all happy and contented!
Finally, I asked the winds again, Why don’t you tell those who command you to let you carry me?
And they told me, We can never dictate. We also never know where we should come from and where we should go. We just… follow. We move from a secret place and we are gone in the unknown.
You see, you are the wind, too. You are the trees, the leaves, the bird, the skies. You are the hum of the air, and you are the silence of the clouds. You are a secret place in a beautiful unknown. You are the love, the loving selfishness, the care, the happiness, and the freedom. You are everything. And you do not know it.
At that, I was quieted.
The winds never left. The curtains beside me are still dancing, only with different tempos. The trees, still singing. A bird, somewhere, is still flying, gracefully, uncaringly. Even the waters from afar are calling out the names of infinite waves rushing to the grains of sand. And I, blown away and sensing the peace within, whispered,
I will go. I will go with you.
© Camille de Pano, 2016