I have felt the wind on the wing of madness.

Already madness lifts its wing to cover half my soul.

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring and carried aloft on the wings of the breeze.

I stood checked for a moment - awe, not fear, fell upon me - and whist I stood, a solemn wind began to blow, the most mournful that ever ear heard. Mournful! That is saying nothing. It was a wind that had swept the fields of mortality for a hundred centuries.

It felt like the Old Testament. A plague. A primitive wind blowing at will, evil but purposelessly so, an overcoming in my body that didn’t need to be.

My soul is awakened, my spirit is soaring And carried aloft on the wings of the breeze; For above and around me the wild wind is roaring, Arousing to rapture the earth and the seas.

I feel like someone breathed new air into my lungs. I am not Abnegation. I am not Dauntless.
I am Divergent.

Poetry led me by the hand out of madness.

Today in my heart
a vague trembling of stars,
but my way is lost
in the soul of the mist.
Light lops my wings.

I feel the air as if I could move through it with my ancestors' wings. (p 202)

The wind in which the dead leaves blow. Here I inhale profounder strength And as I am, I speak and move And things are as I think they are And say they are on the blue guitar.

Sadness flies on the wings of the morning, and out of the heart of darkness comes the light.

The morning wind spreads its fresh smell. We must get up and take that in, that wind that lets us live. Breathe before it's gone.