Trees dance fluid in the breeze, performing as one: spontaneous choreography. The wind blows by me, but I remain steadfast, unmoved. A wall of resistance as a door slams shut in the distance.
I am the defender. Jaw and hands clenched, bracing in readiness for the next attack. I will fight to the finish though the only thing finished will be me. I am the warrior; I am the worrier. I am entrenched in a world of my own design, readying for the battles ahead: the ones I foresee in the strategies I make. The strategies, oh the strategies. I have a plan for every eventuality, plans for the eventualities of eventualities. I see so far ahead that I overlook what is directly ahead, and the plans, the strategies, crumble before my perpetual readiness.
Ready for what? There is no war to be fought. The wind flows through me when I am as free as a tree. There is nothing to win – no grand prize at the end. Indeed, there is no end. Fluid motion is all. Fluid motion.