Gusts of wind like breath. Stuck inside, pushed around, ready to roll somewhere. Remembering when life was simple - sleep, laugh, eat maybe. Now the endless whirring, the rhythm of days taking over from the push of consciousness. We are lost in breezes, caught like plastic bags.
I'm feeling like my time is not my own these days. My role is something to do with others, a role model or a leader or a parent, but none of those things are defined in and of themselves - not like a "developer" or a "baker". I depend on others because they depend on me. We follow each other round like some blindfolded party game.
Maybe people who study dandelion seeds are the happiest. Maybe the ground is just, and always was, a metaphor.