Undercurrent

I've often wondered just how hard the wind can blow when it matters. I've wondered about its velocity, its rage, its limitless abandon. Does it really blow when it truly matters or does it sneak by like an evening breeze, frail and forgotten. It is one of those things I've often wondered and it is something I often think about. That moment that sticks with you and peels back the layers of humanity, leaving you naked in your own distress.

Everything washes away in a wind that strong. It certainly must be some kind of revelation, something truly to behold. A spectacle of sheer grandeur and solitude. These are the things that come in dreams.

These are not things to fear, but certainly things to ponder. A wind like that does not come along often. Sometimes it never comes, it's never felt. If you were to ask me if it truly exists, I would certainly question its validity, its beckoning.

Does it come like a thief in the night? I would hate to think that it would be mere trickery and cheap effects. How hard does it blow when it matters. Can you breathe? Can you lift your eyelids? Is there a deafening roar ringing in your ears relentlessly?

I've often wondered these things; this wind that may or may not know me. How hard will it truly blow when it matters most.