The Wind We Carry

It’s like there is a whirlwind around each human being. A narrative whirlwind of thoughts, opinions, emotions and reactions. It’s deafening. The wind tries to pick you up and fit you into place, into the story that this person carries inside of them every day of their life.

I really can’t do it any more. I can’t be in other people’s reality spaces. I can’t stand to be inside their whirlwinds. Everything inside them curves back on itself sickeningly, getting smaller and tighter, sealing itself away from the universe. No room to breath at all. “Everything is this way because of this and this and I know it has to be because I was there!”

My space doesn’t seem like that. My lines just run on forever and ever. When they do curve they spiral outward, always further. The life of worlds carried in unbroken lines. Let go, release, become larger, less dense. Allow. Let the whirlwind come to stillness.

Yet I need to be around other people. I step into their storms and I feel entrapping things leaving through me, as if I were a window onto a greater space. As they leave those I am with they leave me as well. I couldn’t do it by myself.

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