Wind

While I was working at an English project, I came upon something I had once written about my life. At that time I was writing it rather bitterly, but as I look back I have an urge to smile. Really. I named this piece of writing: ‘Wind’.

Too much is happening at once. It’s like millions of tiny wheels turning inside my head, and turning, and turning, until they can’t go on anymore. They become a pinwheel of eternal illusion, blending into a static swirl. Wind keeps blowing at the pinwheel, you know, like those you have on your front yard. The wind is cold, empty, and brings nothing but misery. The wind is called “UP Bio”.
When I write, everything seems much simpler. My fingers find the correct keys on their own accord. There is no logic, no control system dictating what to write.

That was pretty powerful, no? Considering my hate at that time for bio and my lack of time for writing. (Well, hate adds passion, so I guess that actually helped my writing ability. Cool.)

So I thought this nice little snippet of writing ought to have a nice ending. So I ended it a few seconds ago.

But it’s okay now. The wind has gone, it wailed away like a battered tornado. It has left the room at peace, taking its malignancy along with it.

I guess I haven’t lost the ‘passion’! Or whatever that rush of creativity was.