There is one memory that saves me in the most deaf moments. 🌉 I am standing on an old bridge, the wind is hitting my face, my hair is flying, my hands are frozen, but I do not want to hide them in my pockets. 🧥 I feel alive. 💖

The wind has always seemed to me a sign of freedom. 🕊 It comes when you want to run away, when you no longer have the strength to pretend that everything is under control. 🎭 It blows the trash out of your head. 🧠 It disperses heavy thoughts like dust on the floor. 🧹

Sometimes I forget that I have this bridge inside. 🌁 I forget that I can open the window and just let in a fresh draft. 🪟 Toss my hair, blow off my makeup and feel that I'm still here. Whole. 💫

I catch myself thinking that we so often keep everything locked up: our desires, our fears, our fragility. 🔒 We think that if we open even a crack, we'll be blown to pieces. 💔 But one day I realized that the wind doesn't carry away, it collects. 🌪

When I'm having a hard time, I go out onto the balcony and just stand. 🏙 Sometimes in my pajamas, sometimes in my coat. 🧦 I close my eyes and wait for the wind to start speaking to me in its own language. 🗣 It's like talking to someone who knows more than you. And who doesn't expect the right words from you.

One day I'll get the wind back. Finally. 🌪 I'll open all the doors and windows, throw the old junk out of my head, shake the dust out of my heart. 💖 And then I'll again become the one who stood on the bridge and wasn't afraid of frozen hands. ❄️