It's not the Wind

It's not the Wind

She asks me to sit at the emergency exit. I don't like sitting next to the emergency exit. I booked a seat specifically away from the window, since it's been getting harder every time. I listen to the instructions of the flight attendant. She tells me what to do in case of doom. I look outside. It's dark. I see yellow and red lights on the airstrip. It's quite beautiful, actually. I like lights and enjoy patterns. This is not so bad.

I feel very calm suddenly and realise there's nothing creepy about this. A few days ago I could feel the blood rushing through my body. Now, I feel like a statue. What is this?

Maybe I am just not bothered by death anymore. When you're happy, death is the party-pooper of your bonanza life. Am I so unhappy I'd welcome it like an old friend now? I remember being terrified three weeks ago when leaving this country. Now, I feel nothing. Somewhere in-between, my soul probably decided to go.

The plane takes off smoothly. I'm contemplating where to go next, and if my plants will survive my absence. I wonder how expensive the ticket for parking my car at the airport will be, and when and where I can grab some chocolate milk.

Silly thoughts distract me and I'm quite amused by that. Everything is okay. I've never felt so calm before; the experience is almost surreal. 

The plane goes diagonal. I look left and see the ground from eagle point of view in the whole window. A shock goes through the plane. It goes back horizontal. Back diagonal. A child cries. The whole thing shakes and people raise their voices and I see dark clouds and hear the sound of engines taking over and have no idea anymore what is up or down.

Nobody knows I'm on this plane. Well, except for some strangers I went to dinner with last night. If this is the end, only a shitty B-movie writer could have come up with it. This, the whole month. It's all too ridiculous and I can't believe I've been a part of it.

The world shakes and I shake too now and can't comprehend what is happening and then a woman with a motherly look on her face grabs my hands, sits in front of me, and talks to me.

If I can be subconsciously terrified, but convince myself otherwise, I must have done the opposite before as well. Maybe now. How many people have been here before? How many felt terrified, while everything was actually okay? Don't worry, I tell myself. Does it help? It doesn't.

I see faces. The flight attendant. Hands and words. People try to calm me.

Here I am, a child, gasping for air as if I'm drowning. Tears running down my face at plane-speed. I am not whole and will never be the same again. How can you, when your plane is falling apart?

It's just the wind, they tell me. A rough storm.

I look down, and see red.
I hear screaming, and you're dead.

I thought the world had gone mad.
I look down, and see red.

Call me summer sad and out of my head.
Hand me guns instead of brushes and I'll still try to paint the moon.
The northern lights. The sky. Did I ever get a reason why? 
Everything is ending soon. The only question is, when?
It takes half of a whole to do this again. Can you see me painting the moon?
I know I'll be gone soon, because good can also turn bad.
Do you even remember what I said?
If only you would let, me, paint you a rainbow, to cover all the grey.
But in this mud, blooming things are not meant to stay.
You used thunder on flowers and I was silly to call it showers.
To call a hurricane a steady breeze, 
and still be surprised by all the falling trees.
For in these woods souls cannot be sound.
Everything burns and nothing is found.
Like a pack of wolves on the loose,
feeding bats with a sugar noose,
you hide your crows well and blind all under your spell.
Do you even wish me well? Do you even wish yourself well?
Escape in the present, hide from your woes,
build a cocoon, dismiss all the blues.
The shades of summer were torn by winter,
nobody ever wants to make you linger.
Neglect autumn and blow up spring.
No dust to move and no song to sing,
how did I dare to dance when I could never win?
It breaks my core, and there's nothing I can do.
There's really nothing good I can do for you.
This destruction, I'm not the first, I bet.
So what do I do, do I forget? As if these minds never truly met?
Hey, we're all alone, is what you said. 

So no, it's not the wind, I just met.

It's the thought that you are dead.


The Children: Short stories revolving around dreams and nightmares and life and death. does not display third party advertisements because we believe information and knowledge that informs or protects the public, should be (clutter)free.

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