Everything is Dust in the Wind

The wind was rough with me today. It shoved me from behind, like an impatient Trekkie who had been waiting in line all night for tickets to the latest convention. Moments later, it pushed me back like a brutish frat boy who had done too many kegs stands and had the liquid courage of an inebriated Goliath. And then it side swiped me, like the first time I stepped out on the rugby field and was knocked out by a girl the size of a refrigerator. 

I continued to barrel through the capricious wind on what started as a gentle jog through the park. But, with oppressive storm clouds overhead, it wouldn't take a meteorologist to predict what would happen next. Even so, the Earth held it's bladder a little longer.

Twenty minutes later, I reached a point where I felt like I was no longer choosing the direction in which I was running. This robust breeze had hustled me toward the ocean. Looking out over the wind-whipped watery mass, I felt as if I had reached the edge of the earth. I took a short step up on the railing like a kid at the zoo and looked directly down. The waves were cowardly, as if a fat baby had jumped into a bathtub and created a ripple effect. 

I looked back around at the skyline and then my immediate surroundings. A lone fisherman stood at the edge of the pier. Rubber rain gear in check and fishing rod amidst an unending bowl of saltwater broth. 

At the time, I took a step off the rail and trailed the diffident waves with my eyes. I thought about how I can never remember my dreams. But, for some reason, I got this choked up feeling like deja vu, as if I had seen this moment before in a subconscious state. Perhaps the wind had more of a plan for me that day than I thought.