What do I make of the tolling of these bells? Where does my heart stand at the coming of these winds? If it were a fragrant flow, my mind would not be wary thus. Tis a sharp wind, a frigid wind, from places far beyond, where I've seldom been. It speaks of a latent energy buried in the pith of a rolling boulder, as large as a mountain and as loud as thunder. A fever flying in from the changing sky that is a hue of yellow now, crimson then and later a shade of a color unknown. Fluttering garments, windswept hair and a nervous twitch in the fingers and toes. A flag that drooped before, is waving now, the inconsistency in its flutter striking a chord with the fickle palpitations of my own bloody heart. A smorgasbord of emotions swirling and dipping, shifting and falling akin to the nobility and freedom that is now all around me. And yet in its midst is an intangible heaviness, teasing and just beyond reach, offering a momentary chance to touch but never the ability to grasp and control. Grief and goodness, balm and burning, malaise and melody - all bundled into one little fleeting window of time.
The pulse of this moment is as mysterious and bleak as a deep, hidden cavern and yet, it carries shards of a mild hope. Maybe there is a sun there on that distant horizon where this air is from. Maybe there is an inherent hope in all things that are coming to an end. For in every ending, there is a beginning to cherish. If not of anything new and bright, if not the birth of a shining path, if not an inception or a hopeful reprieve, there is always a consolation, however scant, that it is indeed, the beginning of the end.
