The Peace of Perspective

How often did he hate it when the wind came in unceasing torrents, beating against his withering chest?  There did not need to be an answer, or rather, there was no need to go beyond the question, for the answer was always the same: every time.  It was like being pummeled relentlessly, but against an enemy too large to receive a return blow.  And it took what little sanity winter left him with and turned it raw.
            But he could not hide from it, could not cower.  This was winter, and even at its end, the ever forming, ever blowing storm could not prevent him from doing his duty of winding about the depths of weather—not when its alternative was despair.
            And yet, he woke each morning to the galing winds, to the howl that had yet to cease in the months since they had first began, and to the pit of anger in his belly.  It did not matter that there was a choice in his comings and goings.  That he had decided what his calling might be.  Or had he?  For he felt that he had no choice.  That this was what life had handed him.  The cruel anxiety beat within himself at the helplessness he faced.  He fought an epic battle with a fierce opponent and there was nothing he could do but rage.
            And all the while, the furthest corner of his mind grew nearer, whispering the word, ‘futility.’
            Now, he was a mess, torn to shreds by the dimming strength of his mind, and his worthless attempts to mentally fight his opponent, to beat back the winds.
            In his desperation, he went into the stunning breezes, and begged on his knees, weeping.  Asking them to stop.  To grant him peace.  That was when a gust played with his hair.  It twirled his cloak.  It cleansed his face.  And all at once, his anger abated.  Perhaps, a new thought beckoned, the wind had come to play. 
            Nothing had changed.  The wind was no less fierce, no less constant.  And yet, everything had changed.  The man had found peace.

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