SLECHTHART
how can I blame the wind for the mess it made, if it was me who opened the window
There’s something about how the room feels after it’s been opened to the outside. A quiet disturbance, things out of place, as if something—or someone—had been here and left in a hurry. It’s easy to wonder what caused it, to think that it could have been something beyond control, something that just happens when the air shifts.
It’s tempting to point to the source, to blame whatever came through that opening. But in the end, was it really that simple? Was it only the outside that did this, or was it something else that made it happen, something that was already there waiting for that brief moment? The answer is tangled, like the mess itself, elusive but there, lingering in the space we let in.
