The joys of windiness

I love the wind.

Whenever a strong gust blows through, i feel a wild gushing joy, bubbling up inside me. I get the urge to run along with it, yodelling in the absolute wildness of it all. It is as if the wind has come to cut a swath right through our cities, our houses, and bringing along with it something else, something other. I stop to listen and feel the wind, as it forces its way through trees, unheedful of obstacles, making them drag and bend their branches along, helpless yielding to this great invisible creature.

When i am in the wind it feels like i am inside this road or path, and for that few moments i am within something else, something that came from beyond the city, beyond the sea. I would tumble after the wind if i could cartwheel.

The only thing better than a good gust is if there is a good wind in a thunderstorm. I used to stand at the balcony whenever there is a good storm, and just stand there silently watching the trees and the clouds, leaning over and supporting myself on the elbows. I won't understand people who fear lightning, i guess. Somehow standing there, feeling the wind on my face and listening to cracks and flashes of lightning makes me forget where i am, and just for awhile the city ceases to belong to us, it belongs to the skies, the surge of electricity from the heavens, the rippling twisting clouds.

And to the rushing, pulsing winds.