Faith
It’s summer, which means the air outside is becoming sticky, and my insides are becoming sticky too. The air feels heavy as it lingers close to the ground, where it presses on me with an indefinite weight. Strangely, there’s no turbulence, only pressure. For the air just hangs there, moving too slowly to rustle the leaves, to rustle my hair. Have you ever sat through a windstorm of blowing leaves? - of blowing rain? - of blowing dust? That’s the type of chaos blowing inside my head, while outside I witness only hot stillness. Don’t you see it? Clearly, I’ve entered the season of my life called Faith.
Published in