my first night in wales was cold. coldness seeped in through my skull, parting my hair and brain and made house of my whole cranium. cold, cold, cold.

seventeen days later, the coldness has left. there’s no warmth either but i am not shivering or tired. even if i am, i tell myself, who is not tired? who isn’t crippled with exhaustion? i tell myself, i am a tree. a tree that cannot be, will not be, tired of reaching down into the ground with my roots to source and absorb nutrition. as an extension of my existence, i have to do these things. it is my duty, it is what i am meant to do as a human. i am not allowed to be tired. the duties of the world will always find a way to be fulfilled. and i am a human being and as a human being my duty is to live.

that night, i slept. somehow. woke up fifty times in between but i tried to sleep. it was cold. and the wind… the wind was just outside my window.

someone asked me once, recently, a stranger who was kind enough to me the first time we met, “do you get inspired by the environment when you write?”. and i didn’t know what to say. i never revisit my writings as a new reader. i am always their owner, the source of all the wailings and never a reader, so i had never thought of critiquing my own writing from the perspective of the reader. does my writing talk about things around me a lot?

i am aware i write about a love i haven’t had the pleasure of finding, perhaps might never find. but why is it that when somebody mentions love, our mind goes to romance? what shameful derogation we put love under. romance is the least passionate love out of all, in my opinion.

i told the stranger whose name i will surely forget in the coming months, “i write about love mostly, but it’s not the love that comes to mind. it’s all about the environment, anything and everything happening around me. loving it and hating it. loving the growth within me, within others, and loving the act of observance while hating the sensitivity it takes to absorb the world into myself. so you could say that everything i write is inherently about the environment.”

why was i talking like that? why was i talking like i knew the first thing about being a professional in the field of writing? how disgusting of me. how pretentious of me. how unnecessary—

the stranger hummed and leaned across the railing, seemingly pleased and comfortable. “you know yourself. that’s kind of cool.”

a couple was fishing five meters away from us. the woman caught a fish but it was too small so she flung it back into the sea. a few drops of the splash touched my cheeks and forehead.

what?

“what?” i laughed, “no i don’t, i don’t know a single thing about myself. and ever since i’ve moved here, i don’t even recognize who i am, who i am becoming.”

the stranger had nothing to say to me. we simply looked at the dark blue sea, the orange, pink and purple sky as the moon crept higher into the horizon and we stayed silent. i had never thought that the size of the moon could look so different based on which corner of the world you’re in. here, the moon is bigger than anything i’ve ever seen. and sometimes it turns red and i am reminded of my teenhood.

it’s a secret i share with the universe. whenever i see a red moon, i look down at my feet and fight a smile. it’s something to live with. a small rush of dopamine, a little thing to laugh to myself about.

it is true that i am becoming somebody i do not recognize. this is the second time this is happening, but the only difference is that when it first happened, i was healing. it was betterment the first time and i had parts of myself i wanted to hold on to, parts of myself that i liked and never wanted to forget. but now i’m changing outside just as much i am changing inside, and i cannot foresee any of it.

this time, i don’t have control over how i evolve. how my 22nd year on earth changes me is no longer a secret i share with the universe. i am not in control and i am forgetting things i would like to hold onto forever about myself. i am becoming sloppy. it is like witnessing my own death. it is not sad, but it is not comforting.

humans must live, and we must evolve. that is our duty. still, the wind can be scary and the nights can be cold. and it’s alright to complain sometimes…isn’t it?

that first night, i was scared of the wind for the first time. there’s a small gap between the window and the window frame when it’s closed. the wind passes through the crevice and it whistles and howls and wails. it sounds like a woman in distress late into the night. it feels ominous every time it happens. and i am up on the 11th floor, so it happens often.

that first night, being awakened by the wailings of the wind for the nth time, i wrote this:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedthe wind doesn’t howla void does.creeping through crevices, the windattempts to make a home out of a void.but voids are meant to be emptyand winds are meant to never stay.so the grief of failure elicits a sounda cry which sounds too humanethe sorrow of a void that could not be a homewhistles out into the nightand the void never complains.remains a void, just as voids are supposed to be.the wind takes pity and speaks on its behalfcries and howls and tears the skies apartbut it is, after all, only a winda soft caress against the skinand it can howl but in the endit is no better than a void. invisible and easily forgotten.two of a kind, the void and the wind.they’re nothing but rudimentsgoing unnoticed— the purpose of their existence.the wind blows into the voids heartis unable to ignite any partand the void is yet unspeakingbut the wind is loud in its grief. it knows it has to leave.when it does, the wind is fast on its feet still the void will never speak.the force of their shared grief is what makes us believe that the wind howls.but the wind doesn’t howlthe void does.

i started a story between the wind and the void but i fell asleep in between writing. when it was morning, i had caught a bad cold (fresher’s flu, they call it) and the poem was incomplete, unkempt, all over the place, and i never touched it again.

i was no less cold that morning, so i went out and sought things that would fill my voids.

i might not recognize myself when i look in the mirror anymore, but i am less cold. more uncertain, yes, but certainly less cold.

it counts for something, doesn’t it? it’s alright to complain about it today, isn’t it? does it make me any less of a tree? am i straying from my duty?

if the wind cannot make a home out of me, maybe a void can.

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