Cool temperature. Still night. Thin film of cloud In the hospital, I read a draft of Wind’s Animacies by Sasha. The article sweeps me up, taking me far from the fluorescent lighting and airless weather of the waiting room. I turn of the question, "what does the wind remember?" I am moved y the question, perhaps because I am currently grappling how to reorganise or cohere a messy history of ill health with the new knowledge that comes with a diagnosis. I find myself caught between wanting to forget the lost days in bed with a pillow tucked under my left side in an attempt alleviate the pain, or the sleepless nights and listless days that followed. Could an earlier diagnosis have changed the course of these days and nights. This is is both too painful and utterly pointless to think about. I want to reorganise my memory into a tidy narrative of endometriosis, rather than the current cluster of unexplained, possibly unrelated symptoms that moved around my body to the extent that I stopped trusting myself as reliable narrator. I am thinking with Sasha's words: is pain is similar to wind? Neither immaterial nor material. Is it not energetic, “slippery”, “leaky”? Speaking about wind’s memory is an analytic move away from asking “where does the wind come from?” A question that forces an artificial cut into time to arrive at a single origin point. (2024 Engelmmann) I exercise changing the familiar questions “Where does the pain originate?” or “When did the pain begin?" to “What does my body remember?” The new question requires me to relearn to trust it my body and its complaints. To piece it back together. In a wholly different context, that of the 2016 US presidential election, American essayist and anarchist Rebecca Solnit writes “when the subject is grim, I think of the act of naming as diagnosis.” Diagnosis does not equal a cure, but it is an act of recognition that has the potential to reorganise and make sense of memories.