The winds are back today, kicking up dust and scattering reason. I have retired to my room where it’s still – so still – to try and gather what the wind is picking up and carelessly dropping all over the island; thoughts and calm. But I can still hear it whistling at my door, sneaking through the cracks, running amok down the main street. The wind is the weather’s naughty child who delights in other’s discomfort.
In my warm little room, strewn with the detritus of life suspended, I put all my clothes away. Sort out the washing. Order to my room usually results in order to my thoughts. I collect empty water bottles – in this heat we go through at least 3litres a day – and stack our higgledy piggledy collection of books, taken from exchange shelves and fellow travellers.
The room as tidy as it will get, I sit, with my bare back pressed against the wall, trying to pull its cool into and under my skin, staring at nothing. I’m irritated; as if a fly is constantly landing on my shoulder, or hair tickling my nose. The wind is winding me up, delighting in my quickness to swat and snap.
I’m annoyed by obnoxious Australian travellers, all of 21, who speak and act as if the world owes them something. As if it’s enough they are in a different country, that manners and discretion and grace aren’t necessary. As if boorishness is loveable.
I’m annoyed by the glossy magazines I’m flicking through, for their simplicity and obsession with all that is fickle and transient; fashion, faces, money. For the stupidity they feed women.
I’m annoyed by my fucking spacebar thatkeepssticking.
I think I need a glass of wine.