Wind

Before I knew it, I had created my own personal tornado. Like a cottonwood flyaway or seedling, I had detached from my roots. I had been soaring through the sky for quite some time, letting this breeze and that breeze pick me up, shift my direction, and take me along their current. My path was constant in changing from one person to the next, their emotions taking over with each one. Where was home? Why couldn’t I just go back? Why couldn’t I start to form my own opinions uninfluenced by anyone else’s? How did I get here? My stem must’ve started out weak, already susceptible to one big gust of wind to push me off of my tree, away from the known and into a world of tornados swirling and swirling, suffocating with everyone else’s air around me.