Windborne

I build kites out of questions and fly them into storms. I tie them with the string of my own unknowing. No anchors. No answers. Just the wind, and the trembling.

Each one rises like a cathedral on fire. Glorious, doomed, electric with its own urgency. I never expect them to return. But sometimes they do, charred and howling, dragging lightning behind them like a memory with a desire for prophecy.

You ask what I’m searching for. You think I want truth.

But truth is a wall, and I’ve never wanted shelter. Give me the gap in the brick, the echo in the hall, the scent left behind after something leaves the room.

I want the questions that defy language. The ones you can’t write down because they shiver too hard in your hands. The kind that look you in the eye and ask,

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Wonder is not a place you reach. It is the ache that keeps your eyes open. It is the feeling of being small in the right way. The way a match feels under an unending sky. The way a thought feels as it vanishes into impossibility.

I’ve stood on the lip of the void and shouted my name, only to watch it fall out of sight and listen, endlessly, for a silence I’ve always recognized.

I’ve asked the sky for answers. It gave me birds. I’ve asked time for mercy. It gave me dust.

I’ve learned to accept what does not explain itself. I’ve learned that reverence doesn’t ask for understanding.

Because awe is not born in the solving. Awe lives in the standing still, in the watching, in the unasked. Awe is what grows in the gaps between understanding and surrender.

I used to chase meaning like it was prey. Fast, fragile, bleeding purpose across the landscape of my thoughts. I ran it down with sharpened questions, thinking if I caught it, if I held it still long enough, it would reveal something…anything. But meaning doesn’t bleed when it runs. It doesn’t cry out or stumble. It vanishes, clean, silent, unsentimental. It slips through the cracks in the wind.

I no longer chase. I listen. I follow the soft footprint of silence, barely visible, pressed into the moments. It leads nowhere, and everywhere. It leads me to the precipice of self, to the place where voice can’t survive, but knowing thrives. Something quiet and whole. I walk behind it, just to be near whatever leaves that kind of stillness in its wake.

And I’ve found more there, in the unlit corners, in the places where meaning falls apart, in the clarity of what cannot be explained.Anything else would have been a betrayal.

I wanted to say something beautiful. But the silence beat me to it. Anything else would have been a betrayal.

There’s a language the soul speaks that the tongue will never learn.

The chaos is not a flaw. It is the signature. The fingerprint. The edge of something vaster than comprehension.

Call it Whatever . Call it madness. Call it wind.

It is madness though, you see, this tearing at the walls of thought, trying to shape language into something that even hints at the vastness I feel.

The words collapse. They always do.

But I speak them anyway, because something inside me refuses to stay quiet. Something insists on the attempt to say the unspeakable, to kiss an echo, to carve syllables into the void and hope they speak.

So yes, call it madness. But in its silence, I am seen.

I call it home.

We build greater and greater words in an effort to contain the uncontainable, to speak what was never meant to be said, to reduce the infinite into something that fits in our mouths.

And when that fails, as it always does, we do not yield. We call it fiction. We call it illusion. We call it nothing.

But it is not the failure to define that shames us. It is the presumption that we ever could.

I was not born to know. I was born to see. To marvel. To weep at the shape of an uncarved stone. To drown in color before it was even that.

I am not a seeker. I am a witness. I am the open mouth, the tilted head, the child listening at the edge of the woods for a story that hasn’t been told yet.

Let others cling to answers. Let them fold their knowledge into neat little shapes and say it is safety. I will stay in the storm.

And when the sky splits open, I’ll lift my face to it. Not with fear, but with reverence.

I’ll send another kite.

And I’ll pray that it never comes back.