The Struggle

The Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind beats at my door; I ignore it.

It tries to get in through the window, but can’t undo the lock.

It tries the chimney before cursing the inventor of the natural gas fireplace.

And so the Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind hovers outside, howling for attention.

“Halooo, in there,” it says, doing its best to imitate Winnie-the-Pooh.

“Go away,” I say.

“But why?”

“Because I have no use for you today.”

“Why is today different than yesterday?”

“Because I’m knackered,” I say, pretending to be British for a few moments. It’s fun.

“You could try, you know.”

“That wouldn’t exactly be fair, now, would it?”

“And why is that, per se?”

“Who says ‘per se?’ ”

“I say ‘per se,’ you nit.”

“Are you pretending to be British?”

“Only a little.”

“And?”

“It’s fun.”

“You should try being Canadian.”

“Oh?”

“Kind of halfway between being American and British. We pepper our colours with ‘u’s, but tend to organize with a ‘z.’ ”

“Not to mention the accent.”

“Canadians don’t have an accent.”

“That’s not what the British say.”

“Well,” I scoffed. “Still.”

“So,” said the Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind.

“So,” I said.

“As I was saying, why is it not fair?”

“Oh, because it's not natural. Things like this, they have to flow.”

“Naturally?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, naturally, that.”

“Yes.”

The Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind thought for a while. It can be contemplative when it wants to be.

“What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow might work. If.”

“If what?”

“Oh, if I have the inclination.”

“I hope you would be inclined.”

“I as well. This isn’t of my doing, you know.”

“Whose doing is it, then?”

“I’m not sure. It may be ennui set in or perhaps the onset of a cold.”

“Which, when stripped down to the bare essentials, are excuses. And in turn, equals no one’s choice but your own.”

“Me?”

“Of course. Who else?”

“I suppose that’s true. But still, it’s nice to give in to temptation now and again.”

“Okay, but what about productivity?”

“What about it?”

“Didn’t you say once that a little went a long way?”

“I seem to remember something.”

“Well, you did say that.”

“I suppose I should take my own advice.”

“You would be hypocritical otherwise.”

“I’m not sure if that’s entirely appropriate.”

“What’s that?”

“To call me hypocritical.”

“I’m sorry. Did I overstep my bounds?”

“Perhaps a tad, but we can overlook it.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Not a problem.”

The Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind whistled an awkward and off-key tune, clearly waiting.

I sighed. “I will let you in, but only for a few moments. My down time is my own and I can’t let this become a habit.”

“This wouldn’t happen if you stuck to a schedule,” the Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind murmured.

“What was that?”

“Oh? Just the wind.”

I opened the window a crack and it blustered in, settling and stretching at my feet.

The Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind then began its work, breathing out tendrils of inspiration that coiled and seeped and burrowed.

“Ah, nothing like some fresh ideas to spruce up an evening,” I said.

“Quite.”

“Well, enough dilly-dallying. Time to set things in motion.”

“And what of tomorrow?” sighed the Wind-That-Wasn’t-A-Wind.

“Why, tomorrow is like any other day, my friend. We will play our roles in this; I the detractor, you the advocate.”

“And in the end?”

“In the end...well, we’ll have to see how the end plays itself out.”

“Well said.”

“Thank you. I believe I will write that one down.”