Atmosphere

Every time I want to stay something else reminds me I am made of air. The whole world is the recipient where I can be. My shapeless limbs hover far above and then drift by, mixing themselves with the invisible. I can go anywhere I please. My hold is so light and careless to carry something with me, so I don't mind if I spend my days on my own. I'm not meant to remain, either.

I just beat on, nothing can touch me at all. I'm quite supreme and far away from anyone's reach. I can't love and can't be loved. I can't be hurt, for air has no weaknesses. I guess I blew them off or perhaps I always lacked them. Sometimes I'd like to care but then I get annoyed and stop trying, because it is pointless for me, since my condition disables me for those labours.

Everyone knows I'm there but they just look at me pass by. They never dare to follow my way because they know they will never get me; if they wanted to it would make no difference: I would leave them behind or produce a big pressure wall to keep them at bay. Yes, I can let them know when they are trespassing my boundaries, while I stare into their eyes from the distance I have put in-between. I have gotten used to this life so that I'm not sure if I could ever make any exception for someone else. No one has ever flashed up by the corner of my eye for whom I had ever wanted to change my mind.

This place is getting too warm. Off I go.