Knocking With The Wind

The way they connect, leaves me breathless. Together they form a thought, or an idea. This idea flickers across my conscious: whispering to my blood. To take a step, just one step, would set me on a path. Towards what? Oblivion is obviously staying here. So that step that started with a whisper, created from a thought, leads somewhere I must go. The cliche would be to say, "I must find myself". In a sense this is false; I know who I am. Why does this whisper speak to my desire? I need this to satisfy my curiosity. I might bend, maybe even break. Maybe, hopefully I will stand tall with a spark of spirit in my eye. I need this, not to find myself: to define myself. All of this started with one simple thought; instigated by intertwining, smoothly justifying, obnoxiously satisfying: words.