Whispers

The wind here whispers, ‘Are you eating enough?’ ‘Are you studying enough?’ ‘Are you busy tonight?’ ‘Are you angry?’.

The sky is gray; the trees are tall and mighty and wise, with canopies like wispy thunderstorms, and wood colored gently like sandstone and earth.
The trees are quiet and far, with many miles in between them. Beyond the trees is a great wall of fog.
I watch the ground instead of the trees, vaguely aware of my path, even when I’m trying to focus.
I watch the fields, too, the wheat browning and then mildewing in its time.

‘Are you okay?’ ‘Have you been sleeping?’ ‘How much water have you had today?’

In the distance, I think there is a city or a mountain; something great and huge and obscured in the fog, tall enough to be hidden in the clouds.
There are flat concrete posts with bold symbols I cannot read. There might have been a railroad here before.
“You are going the wrong way.”
I stop. The wind hushes gently, ‘You look tired.’ ‘Are you getting enough iron?’ ‘Are you sure you should drink that much?’. The wind is not solid or sturdy. Not like-
“You are going the wrong way.”
I turn to the side. Stones crunch under my feet.
“But I’ve come so far this way,” I say, looking towards one tree, then another in the distance; trying to focus my eyes on the fog.
“You’ve come far in the wrong direction.”
The voice is sexless and conversational, but there is no one nearby.  I turn and look behind me.
“It is far too go back.”
“You don’t have to go back.”
I look ahead again. The fog doesn’t swirl or settle. It is opaque and corporeal.
“But you said this was the wrong way.”
Without much inflection the voice replies, “It is.”
I say, “I gave up so much to get here.”
It replies, “Stop giving up, then.”
“But-” I struggle for a moment. “Leaving the path would be giving up.”
It is quiet. “How much am I supposed to bare?” I ask.

‘Did we use too much electricity this month?’ ‘Wanna hang out tonight?’ ‘Is the heat bothering you?’

“You have hands and a head and a heart.” It states cryptically.

‘Am I gaining weight?’ ‘Do you have insurance?’ ‘How’s your new job?’

“Not all burdens are a choice, but many of them are.” It adds.
“It’s heavy.” I say.
“Much of the weight is against your heart.” It says.
I take a step forward, pause, and a step back.
“I don’t know what to do.”
In monotone thoughtfulness, it replies, “Consider what you carry.”
I take a breath, catch dust on my tongue, and turn once in a circle, looking all around me. There is wheat, wind, trees in the distance, and the fog beyond. A lone flower grows yonder east, the first I’ve seen here. I watch it sway in the field. I realize my path is between two rows of wheat. I’m standing alone in the rot and dust of an untended field.
“I cannot stop,” I say.
“You can start,” It replies.