It was that kind of a night, perfect, majestic. The stars were out and winds were blustering. Within the bluster, there was something softer, a gentler breeze, like a lover’s caress. It was cold, but not the kind of cold that would burn you. A sweeter kind of cold. That would chill you to the bone with a strong gust, but somehow not too harshly. Like a forceful tickle. And when you’re out on a night like that, you can feel the wind through your hair, and you can feel your warm blood as it rushes through your body. You can feel it radiate heat.
Maybe there is someone alongside you, holding your arm. So that the whole setting is spellbinding. You feel wonderful and they are so many things you feel you have to say. Yet, each time you talk. The strong wind drowns your words and soon you realize it is futile, because everything in that moment is too perfect to be put into words.
Words are manmade, what you have here is primordial. The language of nature, of silence. It’s how the winds talk. Wordlessly, blissfully, in perfect harmony with the world around it. Right then you’re haunted by the mortality of your existence. It’s finiteness. You can’t really tell what the winds say. You can make out the tune but not the meaning. Never the meaning. A tinge of mournfulness overtakes you so completely. It is then when the person next to you holds you tight, to fend of the harsher spirts in the wind. Somehow, someway, you know. You just know that the winds talk of love.
For these are the same winds that touch the mountains and the sea. That touch the skin of the pure and evil, and their hearts from within. They have touched every man that has lived or will live. And the winds are wise, as they are cruel. And they love as they abhor. They bring life and they bring destruction.
It is then you realize that the winds are human. And humans above all, need to love.