belonging

Plummeting.
The wind rushes by incredibly fast, yet caressing him as he tumbles. Pushing at him, into him yet inexplicably not destroying him. He looks around, conscious of all those around him, smoothly piercing the breeze where they should be struggling against it. They are all in the same sky, similar gusts buffeting them, but he looks at them and his thought pauses. Momentarily he looms above himself, sticking out in the mass of similarity. Not standing out, but sticking out- out of place, out of sync. But it is a wonder no one looks at him, if he sticks out so.

For it is they that seem absorbed. Lost in their trajectory, in each other’s trajectory- for their delicate orbs have the common bond of familiarity.

Newness, strangeness or intrusion.

Did it matter, when all drops eventually fall to earth, crashing beautifully and gently...