Listen to the wind

I've been lying in the bath since three this afternoon; listening there to the wind blowing hard, and reading.
It's now six-seventeen, dark outside and the buffeting wind's suddenly died.
There's some silence; there's water trickling through the old bath's overflow; every now and then a change in the breeze allows me traffic sound from the highway 2km away.
It's filled with people cursing the weekend's end, while they rush between Mozambique, Nelspruit, Lowveld and back to Gauteng, sub-Saharan Africa's economic powerhouse.
Back there to work and treadmill lives.
Leaving behind lovers and loved family members, animals, homes, fights, assaults, quite possibly a murder. Great memories, even appalling ones. Vast amounts of noise, and alcohol. But back to my bath...
I'm in an interesting phase, what I'm reading confirms that, also that I'm heading somewhere else:
'I celebrate myself,' Bill Morgan's biography of poet Allen Ginsberg;
'Freedom (the courage to be yourself),' by Osho;
'Leadership wisdom from the Monk who sold his Ferrari,' by Robin Sharma;
'A guidebook to the Camino de Santiago,' by John Brierley;
'Thoreau and the Art of Life,' edited by Roderick MacIver; and 'Creating a garden with Keith Kirsten'.
My mind is whirring. As soon as I got remotely bored, I picked up the next.
Now to jump out and nakedly stride into the nearby kitchen to fill a glass with chilled sauvignon blanc ('Fat Bastard'), then back in to shave my legs. I maintain that it's a hangover from my cycling days.