The Wind Listens

I remember when I used to talk to the wind. It is not a matter of belief, or childish imagination. Rather, it is a sense of blissful ignorance, that instinct to talk to the inanimate in case there is a possibility of more to the inanimate, to the offspring of the true queen, Mother Nature. The wind is not, necessarily, alive and interested in the ramblings of a five year old girl living in suburban Lester, England, and yet she, the five year old, still whispered sweet nothings into the breeze. The comfort of a constancy which is so prevalent in the summer breeze is what hooked me, hooked like the calm dance of the laundry on the clothes line. It is the comfort of a listening force, the promise of secrecy, and the absence of fearing interruption. Words to notions to ideas to firm beliefs spill out of my mouth for the wind to carry away, over the sea to a different indifferent continent. She takes and caresses me in her chilled arms, as she blows the pixie-cut strands of hair out of my round face with her cold breath. She lends her figurative ear as she pushes me on my plastic swing in a garden deprived so. She never answers. She never criticizes. She does, however, listen. Listens to the troubles of a kindergartener. And you and I, in her debt, must listen as well. Listen to the chimes she plays with in the vain attempt to communicate. Listen. Truly listen. Listen. 

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Creation, Blank Spaces, and Imaginary Friends of the sleep deprived mind

It won’t go away. That stupid buzz in my head. That annoying critter that tickles my brain. That…that hole in my mind. No, I don’t think sleeping will help. Sleep is a waste of time.
WHY CAN’T I THINK OF ANYTHING, DAMNIT?! (Sorry, got all street there).
My mind is completely blank and clueless. A dull light looking for somewhere dark to illuminate. Why won’t my light bulb go off? No, I don’t need sleep, I told you that already! What I need is a stroke of inspiration, that colorful bomb, that… creativity. Can you think of anything? I know, it’s hard. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you .Here, make yourself useful, and sharpen these pencils. I’m going to need them when I finally think of something.
My mind won’t stop that buzz! It’s getting louder. It’s like a boring straight line, because it’s not going anywhere but straight. Why is everything so dull and gray? I’m so sleepy… no, I don’t want a pillow. Wait…
BA-BAM.
Scratch scratch scratch goes my pen. My mind is imploding. Lights, colors, pictures, words, ideas, inventions, thoughts, sounds, EVERYTHING I WAS WAITING FOR.
Creation. I’m dizzy with so much creation.
(Isn’t it funny what seems to go on when I think? I think words but I seem to think of them before I think of them. Such a complicated thing to explain. That doesn’t make sense, you say? Well guess what? I don’t give a frying pan.)
My letters flow into words, my words to sentences, my sentences to paragraphs, to pages, to a book… to a master piece. Yeah, that’s what I said… don’t question it.
I wish people understood I’m not weird. I’m not odd. I’m different, and I want to make it known, so I do whatever I want. No, that does not make me impulsive. More like… yeah, I’m impulsive. Chuckle.
I make the page different by… creating. I make the blank space another beautiful space. Another thing to add to that star that is collapsing under its own mass. Yes, I am talking about black holes. No, you stop being so scientific!
I will be. Different, I mean. Definitely. What? Naw, just thinking to myself.
Creating.
I say that a lot, don’t I? You think so? Doesn’t matter. Repetition isn’t important. As long as it counts.
I’m not making sense, am I? You don’t care? Well.
Anyway, will you help me? Take a seat. Pull up a chair. Grab a cuppa java. Some biscuits too, while you’re at it. The strawberry ones, if you please. Yes, those.
Thank you. Yum. That’s better.
So what do you think of this? Is it nice? Is it different? Oh… so that’s how you spell acquiesce.
Thank you once again, imaginary friend. Yes, I will sleep now.
See you tomorrow.