I imagine that stones must tire of the same current bearing down heavily on their surfaces. Leaves must expire after strict devotion to their trees and so they must fall. Will my legs give under the pressure of this great atmosphere as I climb the stairs into the sky? All things in existence must be like me… secretly trying to just get by.
I’m sure there’s more to this story of life. It is a pleasant thing to smile at the wind when you drop your heavy burdens; it no longer struggles to tilt you down. Now I can’t help but think of butterflies and how they must struggle against the gust, forever flying into the horizon to perch on the perfect flower.
My chest feels like butterfly wings in the midst of struggle.