Open to the wind

Open to the wind.

I wake up.

The dull brushing of the blankets, the faint chirp of birds, a pale thread of sunlight slipping through the crack in the curtains.

Another day. Again.

Every morning, it’s the same old routine.

No thoughts, no plan—if one ever even existed.

Just the mindless instinct to reach for my phone on the dusty bedside table.

The cord stretches, resists for a moment, then gives way without a fight.

“Your Screen Time was up 24% last week.”

I toy with the idea of getting up and finding something to eat.

But the fridge holds only the limp remains of Chinese takeout—three days old, two bites in. The thought of it is already disappointing.

I closed the container and left it there, like most things.

Now it’s probably colder, soggier, even less inviting.

So I lay there, scrolling.

Not sure what I’m looking for—something to hold my attention, maybe,

or distract me long enough that I don’t have to ask why.

Just chasing the next thing, and then the next.

Something to make me feel less empty.

Maybe I just wanted to feel like something was waiting for me.

Same as last night. Same every day.

I should get up soon.

3 p.m.

I’m still in bed, and the phone’s dead.

Now the silence feels heavier, where the notifications used to be.

The birds have quieted.

The sunlight has shifted.

It no longer hits my eyes—just a soft glow on the far wall.

I think about closing my eyes again.

Not to sleep, necessarily—just to stop being awake.

Then, in the distance, a child’s laughter cuts through the quiet.

“Bang!”

A crash follows—maybe a ball hitting a fence.

The laughter rises again, louder, harder, and it continues.

Funny how joy can be that loud. Especially when it’s not yours.

It’s no difference to a neighbour’s lawn mower at 6 a.m. Unwanted, unavoidable, and irritating enough to ruin the silence, but not enough for me to do anything.

It sucks when it wakes me. But if I fall back asleep, I know it will fade away like a dream I can’t remember—until it wakes me again.

Maybe I’m overreacting.

Even though I’ve had more sleep than I could ever need.

The sound still gets to me.

And a memory stirs in the back of my mind.

...

A summer afternoon on the corner of a quiet street.

Barefoot on warm asphalt, chasing a soccer ball that wasn’t even mine.

“Henry, pass the ball to me!”

My shirt stuck to my back with sweat; knees scraped from a fall I barely noticed.

The sun was bright, the air too thick—

but I laughed anyway, mouth wide, lungs burning,

eyes squinting up at a sky that felt endless.

A laugh like that.

Not at anything in particular.

Just because the sun felt good.

Just because running until my chest hurt made me feel more alive.

Just because the wind in my face made me feel like I was going somewhere.

...

“Beep!”

A car horn in the distance cuts it short.

And suddenly, I’m not running anymore.

I’m still.

Lying down in a room that hasn’t changed in hours.

And that thought creeps in again—the one I keep pushing down.

Like I owe something to the version of myself that used to laugh like that.

Maybe it’s guilt.

Maybe it’s shame.

Maybe it’s just the echo of something I can’t get back.

I should get up.

I stretch a leg out from a tangle of blankets half slipped onto the floor.

My back hurts, stiff from how I must’ve slept—or didn’t.

Still, I move.

Three steps to the window.

I wind the curtain open, just a little.

The light stings my eyes, and I squint against it.

So bright still, like it means anything anymore.

Not much happens on my street.

A few trees. A worn path.

The neighbour next door on his veranda again, in that old wooden swing chair,

a cask of wine in hand like always.

So I stand there, looking out, with nowhere in particular to look.

Just for the sake of being out of bed.

But my eyes settle on one of the trees,

and I end up staring at it.

It’s not special.

Just the same tree it’s always been—the one out front,

half-forgotten, like most things on this street.

Still, I catch myself wondering about it.

Not that trees would have thoughts I could understand.

But the way it just stands there—unmoving,

like it’s waiting for something—it gets to me, a little.

Then I notice the leaves.

Some still clinging to green.

Others already rusting into red.

Like they can’t decide what season they’re meant to be.

Undecided.

Not quite here. Not quite there.

But still standing.

And somehow, that feels familiar.

That waiting.

That in-between.

That not-quite-anything, but something.

In the background, the laughter still echoes.

The leaves move with the wind.

And the tree still stands, rooted in its indecision,

reaching quietly toward a change—whether anyone notices or not.

And I think—

Maybe I’m like that too.

Not fully here. Not fully gone.

Just waiting.

Still standing.

Still moved by something I don’t fully understand.

Still open to the wind, even if it only brushes past me now and then.

It’s not a breakthrough.

It’s not clarity.

But maybe it’s enough to notice.

To stand, even if I don’t know where I’m going.

To bend, even if I don’t know what I’m reaching for.

Maybe change doesn’t have to feel like movement.

Maybe it just starts with noticing I haven’t let go.

The thought lingers—light, fragile, like breath on glass.

I don’t hold it. I don’t fight it. I just let it be.

And then, like all things, it passes.

...

And then—

I wake up.

The soft brushing of the blankets.

The distant chirp of the birds.

A warm thread of sunlight shining through the curtains.

It’s nothing new.

But today, I notice it.

It’s been there every morning.

I just wasn’t.

And I think—

The world hasn’t changed.

But maybe the way I meet it can.

I should get up.