The Sapling and the Storm

I find myself in a whirlwind of emotions.

There used to be a place I wanted to go, together with someone, someday.

But the hand I held was naught but a phantom.

It existed in my mind only, emerged from a mind born from the whirlwind.

There is a puddle below my feet; I gaze at it to look upon myself.

I seem to be smiling, but no joy is reflected, self-recognition is fading.

I try to touch my face with my hand; there is no skin, but only porcelain.

I try to force a frown upon my face, but nothing changes.

I let go of this phantom hand and continue walking, carrying the whirlwind within.

The destination is still not clear, perhaps my very being is a force of destruction.

Yet move I must, for to be the whirlwind is my forged essence.

There exists no hearth for me, even as I grow weary on my journey, and I wonder why I still persist.

I wonder if the young boy I saw when I was young is still happy, or has he become lost like me?

There is a tiny sapling below my feet, struggling to stay upright in the winds around me.

A smile comes upon my face, perhaps different from the porcelain.

I take out my water bottle and pour some water into the sapling, for it wishes to become a big tree one day.

Perhaps I will continue walking, still, carrying a whirlwind of emotions around me.