wind in the steppe

so i went out at night to the edge of the city - the border between it and the steppe. on one side of the road, there are high-rise buildings and lights and cars zooming past, while on the other - burnt and decomposing grass, snow and fog. the rain became so loud despite the engines roaming the streets, i could hear it bang on the earth so clearly. i didn't take my phone and watch with me, since the place i went to needed no time.
 
and as i walked, i thought of this - am i that different from the wind? just like it, i am swayed in constant movement, never resting - even during sleep my blood flows and my lungs inhale. yet the wind does not desire, but i do. yet my desires are swayed by whatever happens to me around the flow of my soul, just like the wind is swayed by other gusts and microterrain, bushes and buildings. there is no need to become the wind, since i am already one - but different. still in the steppe, as universe is so vast that our planet to it is as little as a grain of soil to the steppe. and as i walked, and the world moved around me, neither the city nor the steppe caring about my existence, i continued walking. not out of coldness of the night or the sogginess of the rain, or even the noise of the machines - but simply because i wanted to.

i kept walking, and i didn't notice how i got back home. i saw a rusting car - what made it catch my attention? the difference from the rest or just a pure coincidence of sight picture? and does it even matter? i guess not. nothing does, really, just like the signs that say to not step on the grass - it will grow again, despite how many people walk on it, because one day they will cease and the grass will grow again, despite everything. so do i, exist despite everything, because nothing is relevant to me other than what i consider, just like the grass considers water and sun and does not care about mortgage rates.
 
an unstoppable force that will one day cease, but not because of someone's will or accident, but simply because it did, and the time for it came, with no way of predicting it. just like the wind.
 
i am the wind in the steppe, a weapon of mass destruction. never ceasing, never caring at all.