I hate the wind, and I hate you.

just something I wrote.

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1. first and last chapter

Wind was always kind of a bitch where I came from.

 

It is a temperamental child left alone for too long. In late August it will tease you, run its fingers through your hair and lap at the beads of sweat forming at your shoulder blades. That is, before leaving as swiftly as it came, leaving a void now filled with hot pulsating air. Air so hot it rang in your head, forming a rhythm in your thoughts. A full orchestra, conducted by the sticky hot air choking your lungs at every breath. A symphony of negative hate filled ideas pressing into the front of your brain. Self hatred because your body is betraying you in being so hot - the brass! I hate summer - oh the strings how they play. I need water - pound on the drums, self hatred- sound trumpets! I need winter, I hate summer, self hatred - the instruments all play as one. Getting louder and louder, the crescendo comes as sweat gathers in the back of your knees, a place you didn’t even know perspiration was possible! .... and the tempo will only pick up as the day progresses. And it just won’t stop. This heated music follows you in an aura of hellish intensity throughout the day. You shield your eyes, but you can’t hide from the huge golden symbol in the sky that burrows into your line of vision. And it all could be stopped, if just the wind would pick up. The wind could silence it all, hushing loud drums and french horns; a simple breeze would suffice. It would awaken the soft wind section, replacing the grotesque marching band in my head with a simple flute symphony. But no, it wouldn’t. All I needed was a bit of wind, a tiny bit of attention, but it wouldn’t be there for me. It teases, leaves me begging, and turns its heel on me.

 

Does that sound familiar?

 

On the other hand, in December wind decides that I was right (as I often am). The wind thinks it needs to be there for me. Like a neglectful parent coming round and meeting their fourteen year old kid for the first time in three years, it decides it needs to make up for ‘lost time’. But like the fourteen year old kid now sitting at an iHOP wondering why the hell his dad turned up now, I am uninterested. I’ve moved on. It’s forty degrees outside, I don’t need any help to cool off. But the wind just won’t listen. It circles around my feet, grabbing my exposed ankle with an icy grip. It tries to tear my coat off, LISTEN TO ME, it begs. I pull my coat closer around me, my numb fingers digging into the wool stubbornly. At this point the wind screams and rattles the houses, throwing itself again and again about the town. Before you know it the whole town is talking. It tears at your clothes and rushes through your now hollowed bones. Before you know it you’re stark naked, blue from head to toe - not that you could feel your toes at this point.  All I want is to be left alone, I can’t stand it anymore. I need my privacy, I need to be warm, I can’t be chilled to the bone. I beg it, please leave, but now it has to stay.

 

Do you see what I’m getting at?

 

Of course, not all wind is bad. Sometimes it can be very pleasant. In early june, on a sunny day it tossles my hair and kisses my flushed cheeks. It plays with the leaves of the trees and rushes through the tall grasses. It hums and laughs. It can be really beautiful.

 

I’m sure that sounds familiar.

 

I used this metaphor because I’m very bad at saying things directly. But I have to try. You’re like wind. You either won’t talk to me, lead me on, leave me dry. I spend hours thinking of you, I can’t get you out of my head. You won’t just blow by and see me. Nope. And when I finally am over you, when I’ve moved on, you come back and torment me.

 

There are good days, like in early June, that make me think we could work out.

But most of the time you’re just December when I crave warmth,  or August when I need air.

 

I’m sorry, but we have to part ways.

 

I’m sure you understand.

 

I just hate weather, and now, I hate you.


 

Yours truly,

 

Me.





 

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