local wind

I get tired of writing about the same thing. When will I stop writing about the same thing. I am embarrassed and depressed that, at my core, I have the same feelings as someone in high school who is paid to say platitudes in short-form videos. I know I’ll snap out of it, which is what makes me my age, but does not make me feel any better. I know this is wrong but I would like to rise above the base emotions. I would like to be concerned solely with trees and wind. I would like to wake up and think about leaves. I would like to go to bed listening to the whistles of the night. I would like for the existence of certain people to be an interruption to the soft drone of nature in my mind, and not the other way around. I would like to want, genuinely, to touch the dirt, and identify what is in it, and for that knowledge to bring me the kind of happiness that not even human touch could. I would like to be so cold to the world that I become a tree myself. Or just a branch on that tree, splayed across the patch of sky outside my window. I would like the blankness of that experience to be everything to me, to feel, for once, that things are just as they are and seek no further truth. Sure I would. But here I am.