I want to be the wind.
Not the sun, gazing upon the earth, omniscient and all seeing. He is forever watching but fixed, set in his ways and in his place.
Not the rain or hail or thunder or lightning – or even the rainbow after it all. They’re too fleeting, too momentary, gone too soon.
Not the clouds – the impressionable clouds that go where they’re told and are so easily destroyed by the sun’s rays or a light breeze.
No, I want to be the wind. The wind is the enforcer. The wind is the true master of the sky. Calling the shots, travelling where I please, taking the hapless clouds with me, giving them direction and dimension. Across the sea I’d travel to places I’ve never seen.
I’d whistle through the iron beams of the Eiffel Tower.
I’d curl around the copper lady that looks over New York City.
I’d bound across the curved blue roofs that dot the Santorini cliffs.
I’d stream up and down the giants of Giza after racing across the Nile.
I’d gather the snow filled clouds above the Himalayas.
I’d stretch myself across Uluru then rest with the Doctor in Fremantle Port, home at last after circumnavigating the globe.
How beautiful the world is. No waiting for lost baggage, a late bus, the next flight. Instead all I wait for is a moment of inspiration to decide where I want to go next. There’s no wondering, no wishing.
For I am the wind. I go where I please.