In moments when the wind stops blowing, I wonder; have I always been this fickle? Has the world always been so black and white for me? Had I always expected to be fanned by a cool breeze? It was me – was it not? – that used to voraciously crave the feeling of ruthless sun rays assailing my porcelain skin. It was me – at least I think it was – that used to run from the feeling of quicksand around my ankles. And now all I desperately want is to be rooted in place like a thick, stalky vine and feel a constant zephyr flutter me so. The wind stops and I wonder why the world isn’t turning. The sun finds me, unencumbered, and I curse the things that abandoned me. Here I am, rooted in a field of loveliness. My life is temperate and encompassed in shades of divinity. And in the moments when it does nothing more than exist here, I’m dismayed by the absence of movement, of shifting. When did I become so wholly unable to be?