There was a wind tonight.

It was a strong wind, the type which you wouldn’t probably constitute as merely a wind, like a squall, perhaps, yet it wasn’t powerful enough to for you to deem it as something as intimidating. Still, it was strong enough to shake the branches of trees, to bristle the leaves and blades of grass so that the night became a symphony of rustles and silent wails, and it was gentle enough for you to feel comforted under its breath. There was a certain air of eeriness to it, though, largely because the trembling branches threw shadows on the walls, but if you’re one that doesn’t fear the shadows and whispers of winds, you’ll probably find yourself in a solemn hall of melancholic breeze.

Just like me (but the shadows did creep me out a bit… don’t tell anyone).

If you realise, or took time to realise, you should probably know that winds whispers things. Something inaudible, something that you can’t decipher under the gusts and rustles and whistling, yet you’ll feel as though it is trying to tell something to the world, and the most you can get from it are gist and feelings you sense. You’ll know if the winds are telling a happy tale, or weeping a sad song, or yelling a torrent of anger (you should grasp by now that angry winds are those during storms and hurricanes and whatnot). But then, of course, one as sane minded as you won’t find yourself coming to conclusions such as this; you know, that winds whispers and speaks. Mental. Yeah, I don’t normally deny my state of sanity, so let’s just leave it at that.

Tonight, the winds whisper melancholy and morose.

Perhaps it is my thoughts, my toiling of emotions and sentiments, which most usually find themselves lodged between glum and obliviously cheerful, that made me think that way. Still, there was something about that warm yet chilly gust of air that brought out the depression in me, and I found myself standing in the middle of my lawn, just after managing my pet dogs, and letting the wind wash over me and my gloom.

The song that I sang minutes ago, when I tended to Max’s bowl of rice, seemed to echo with the wind, singing itself in its own tune.

But only love can stay,

Try again and walk away,

But I believe for you and me

The sun will shine one day,

So I just play my part,

And pray you have a change of heart,

But I can make you see it though,

That’s something only love can do…

The feeling of helplessness surfaced, clawing at the walls of my chest and decided upon itself that it should clog my breathing just so I can feel miserable and alone, thus fulfilling its purpose which it was set into when the were the Words at the beginning.

What am I playing at?

Why can’t I just stand up and act, ignoring the fact that I can’t do anything or something worthwhile… worthwhile enough to aid in the soothing of a troubled heart?

The one heart I worry so much about…

I stood there for a while, pondering those things that you know better to place in your own concern, yet can’t help but feel that you ought to worry about it.

It’s not your business. There’s nothing much that you can do.

Nothing much… perhaps.

I turned to walk into the house to liberate myself from the descending knowledge that I was making myself a very easy target for mosquito fodder.

The winds blew again.

Something seized me, something rash and irrational, and I turned and said;

“Can you tell me, then… how do I help her?”

And I stood there, watching as the winds died down, I lingered there on my spot, waiting for an answer I know will not come, yet under the ensuing silence I could almost feel that an answer would, eventually, whisper itself to me, through the winds or the rustle or silence or the roaring cars that pass by.

The winds didn’t return. I felt stupid.

And I walked into the house, feeling as helpless as I ever had, and has, felt.