The wind is… just.
It is adequate when it’s needed. It doesn’t knock at indecent times. It doesn’t sing the song of despair. The wind listens to those inner almost unfound voices in me. When I’m having doubts and when I’m finding it hard to decipher my thoughts into words, the wind greets me softly and let me feel its tenderness touching my skin. Then I just know. Understand the in-me that no one knows.
The harsh wind-chill slapped my face, reminded me to wake up and not daydream when I shouldn’t be.
The wind is just.
The wind is just.
I reminisce a lot when it comes to writing. I can write wherever but I miss the freedom to walk alone at nights. To sit at a coffeehouse undisturbed. To scribble in my notebooks underneath a tree. To speak the language I love the most.
This month last year was when I spent a lot of time by myself. Reflecting upon me before I flew home. It has been almost a year since I left Iowa City, the writer in me quietens.
