The Living Night

I can hear the wind whip around outside my bedroom window, whistling at times like cold air through a vent. The gusts have no particular destination, it seems; they swirl in all directions, reversing course with no resolve — only a tempest of flare, only crossing shadows. There is a lull before each new breath. The trees grow quiet and the night sky falls in. Then, with unprovoked abandon, the wind bursts forth again from everywhere and nowhere with a frenzy that calls to mind a panic-stricken escape from a burning apartment.

Between the push and pull of the wind is six inches of wood and insulation, enough to keep the chill outside but too little to noiselessly withstand the assault. From every corner and wall the house creaks and cracks under the barrage. I imagine the house resettling after every gust, then crying out sullenly when the next heave comes.

Specks of light drift in from the street lamps. Every once in a while a car passes, casting orange across my wall, illuminating the rain drops streaking down the window glass. It is in these conditions that I daydream most. Funny isn’t it, that we daydream most while lying in bed at night trying to entertain sleep? Sometimes I’ll pick up my guitar, lie back and strum a few notes, sing a chorus and remember the past and my predictions for the future. Other times I toss and turn and stare at the ceiling, fully aware of my situation but dangerously hopeful it will change. Sometimes I curl up on my knees and rock back and forth until the blood reaches my head.

The lonely night can do many things to a man’s mind. But the crazy wind has a secret: It can blow your mind out of its discontents.

The simple sound of the wind is enough to make me stop and think: How nice it is to simply listen.