Gust of Wind on the Seine Bridge - Louis Anquetin

Tethered to the omnibus, weathering storms ~ lean into it, hang on, become the wisp. As perception shapes and shifts, our eyes sting, blind spots get filled in; create echo filters. Bringing us to our knees ~ we hold on to our hats, on a turbulent day, unsure if it's our own creation. It lasts 24 hours, or 1 week; we construct it minute by minute, define its perimeters, suffer by them ~ welcome rain, feel blighted by it. Nothing is solid, nothing is change ~ except the carriage, pulled ever onwards, bringing it home The gravitas of the situation, unless set off by a fright, would be linear; has a penchant for straight lines. Forget breathing in and out ~ it's done for you. We are part mechanical, part ether. Personally, I'm neither streamlined ~ nor anchored. Perhaps you are, in this moment. Maybe one day, the foundation of each being begins its unravel. Every ancestor wails from within; atoms of consciousness separate ~ claw at the walls for release, for peace, to join the clouds ~ only to find that weather can't promise calm. Perpetual turmoil, as empathy battles cold. Ridiculous to hang on, or be carried away ~ bruises blue-black either way, until it's suddenly all okay.