I chase scars when I run after the wind. I know that nothing is coming in return, but I am still hopeful. I guess I dream and climb the ladder that takes me to the moon praying that in life I can finally catch that fugitive. I don’t understand why the wind blows at a speed that I cannot possibly ever reach and I feel that if by some miracle I ever reach it, I will slice right through it without really feeling it. It makes no sense to me why I am something to be eluded when all I can think about is a gentle beauty that can only be received with a quiet breeze. A kiss on the cheek or a twirl of my hair from such and empty being seems to satisfy me.
I feel as if I chase a wind that is nearly dead when it is convinced that I’m a refuge. It must be so tiring to run so far and fast all of the time. But sometimes I know that the wind doesn’t blow, but rather stays still so as to evade being touched. I don’t think I will ever grasp it or understand the signs of it being alive. So why do I still chase it? It’s hard to run and I’m tired. I just want to rest, to be cooled down by a gentle breeze. This doesn’t seem plausible, but I know the water is waiting right around the corner.
I don’t know why the water would wait for me when I chase the wind. Sometimes care is showed by strange actions. I have a refuge, I know I can sink into it, but I chase empty air. If I don’t sink into the water soon, my body will become hyperactive to the point of ceasing. Will I stop chasing the wind?