Whispers to the Wind

March 13, 2026

The Sketchbook

Every sketchbook should desire to be finished. For the human mind’s complexity to be splattered onto them. The beauty of art is that it doesn’t require a filter, but intuition. The ability to let go and let the soul paint what words cannot. I was different. Why do sketchbooks wish all their pages were filled? For closure, if there ever was such a thing? Closure of what? Closure of a chapter? Closure of images that once lived, free and wild? I sometimes wonder if the birth of an image on my surface meant the death of it, too. Once it’s out of the artist’s mind, the art wasn’t alive anymore. My pages were overfilled. Masood had stuffed me with different pages because he couldn’t fit his drawings on mine. He came home every day to relax, painting out his worries and fears, enjoyment and love onto me. It felt like whiplash. On one page, his soul painted iridescence. On the other, he drew entrapment. I enjoyed being his passion. His haven. I enjoyed his sons’ awe at how he decorated me, lea...

By Introverted Yapper / Hazel F.

I whisper to the wind
Secrets and memories
That never leave me
Except through my eyes
They roll down my cheeks
They drift through the air
Indecipherable
Through the world's frenzy of extravagance and flair

Sometimes I wonder if the whispers of the wind
Will tell my secrets
And lead me to a true friend

I comfort the air
So that it may comfort me
When I am not around
To be the one I need

I sometimes pause
To see whether I can hear
The tormented whispers
Of souls not here
Or the soft sighs
Of someone soft, someone blythe
I make friends with the wind
With the echoes of a time long gone

The wind holds secrets
It tells the trees
And anyone who pauses, listens
Bothers to see
The stories etched in
The komorebi— the light peeking shyly
through the trees' leaves
And the psithurism—
the graceful touch of the wind,
reassuring the trees

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The Sketchbook