Weekly state: swinging.

As I lie in my hammock of thoughts, I watch my toes wiggling back and forth. Tiny sausages, caressed by the wind.

I, as well, do feel like a tiny sausage in the wind sometimes. A meaty pillar, mighty in the belief that I can withstand the breeze. Weak in the actual capability to withstand it.

So I lie in the hammock, accepting the wind. Letting myself fall into its mercy. I am but a lonely sausage grilled in the sun, swinging and falling asleep.

The might of nature can be peaceful, if we accept its power.

I am a small sausage in the wind, with even smaller sausages dangling around.