Either Way I Wouldn’t Care

Waking up and not wanting to, is always the beginning of a bad day, but this is how depression and anxiety operate together, so I stay inside of my head, and I start to wish that I was other things, like sunlight, the wind, or water. These things are free, and eternal, and they don’t know that they exist, they just simply are, and I think, how wonderful it would be to exist in that way.

 

If I were the wind, I could make autumn leaves dance, and send downy white dandelion seeds swirling in spirals across fields of viridian grass. I could rip giant oaks from the earth, and bend reeds in a pond. I could stir up sand in the desert, and rip flesh from bones. I could cool a hot sweaty face in the summer heat, or gust sleet, hail, and freezing rain against a frail human body in the winter, but either way I wouldn’t care and I would regret nothing.

 

If I were the sun, I would be an integral aspect of photosynthesis. Plants would need me to grow. I would thaw the land as winter passed into spring, and I could burn skin until it blistered. Painters and photographers would search out perfect rays of my light streaming through the clouds, or an open window, and paint, or photograph me, and the shadows cast from my light. I would be an inspiration. Rainbows would exist because of me. Crops without water would wilt and die because of me, but either way I wouldn’t care and I would regret nothing.

 

But there is nothing on this earth that can live without water. If I were water, I would give life to everything, and I would erode mountains. I would exist in three forms. I could be a beautiful rain reflecting the sun and thus revealing a visible spectrum of light in seven different colours, and I would be the delight of dreams and folklore. Or I could be something more treacherous, like the lake that drowned the poet who was tired of living in a world that would not listen to her songs. I could be the ocean, and house entire ecosystems that some humans don’t seem to care about.

 

I could be clouds in the sky, drifting lazily along from the horizon, to the top of the sky dome, observing continents. I would gather, and billow, and swirl in dances led by the wind, and then I would twist and fall to the earth, quenching thirsts, drowning life, or freezing little flowers to death because they emerged from the soil to soon.

 

I could be the mist, dressing the land in sultry gowns of reflected light and shadows. Spider webs would twinkle with liquid diamonds, and the areas clothed by me would become places for mysterious things to dwell, things that most people don’t believe in, but that do exist. If I were a mist rolling off a river, and into the stands of trees along its banks, I would tell you, because I would know, that when I veil the earth in droplets of opaque obscurity, is when that veil is lifted, and time will stop if you go the right way, and you might find a gaslight from another time standing in a pile of crumbling cobblestones, and you will know that you are there, and that They are true and real, but either way I wouldn’t care and I would regret nothing.

 

Beautiful and treacherous I would be, if I could be any of these things, if I could break out this fragile envelope of beautiful decay, and this mind that gives me freedom as it traps me in those galaxies I have created to keep myself company. If I could be one or all of these things together, I would nurture, and I would destroy at the same time. I would be the circle, I would simply exist, and I wouldn’t care and I would regret nothing.

 

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