Somewhere to Land

Breathing comes easy.

It's just what I do. Well, it's what we all do. Without thinking upon it, ironically enough. The one thing that keeps us upright and uptight and Up.

Some days we're the fresh breath of the wind that hovers over the river. Other days we're the gentle, lazy cadence of the breeze that winds its way along a little bit of worn out earth that one day found itself a stream. Still sometimes, not often, but on occasion, we may just be the stagnant haze that weighs itself down, heavy and fat, waiting on a reason for drifting in an estuary.

I wonder which category I fall into, or float within, or drift about. Then again, maybe I'm just a bottle. A bottle waiting on a beach. Perhaps I've already found out how to hover. Perhaps I've already discovered how to waltz. Maybe I've finally figured out the secret to a drift.

What is inside doesn't matter as much as the fact that what was inside finally found somewhere to land.

Or at least beach itself.