The Fan That Turns Toward an Empty Corner

I am Khôi, twenty-nine, and I repair printers at a shop near the market. My rented room has a standing fan I bought secondhand from someone down the row, the dial worn smooth, and each time it swings round it gives one small "tak".

That night, eleven o'clock, I lay watching it sweep back and forth. The landlord passed by my door and called in:

"Does that thing run all night without overheating, young man?"

"It is used to it, uncle."

"One person in the room and you leave it swinging, wasting electricity."

I smiled and said nothing. Then I sat up and wrote these lines.

The standing fan turns its head,
steady as someone counting.
Half the room has wind,
half the room waits its turn.

It does not know
that on the other side there is only a wall,
a raincoat on a hook.
Still it swings over,
slow and well-mannered.

I lie watching the blades.
Some nights I feel sorry for it.
Some nights for me.

Then one night I turned my pillow,
lay with my head at the other end.
The wind came,
for the first time, to the right place.

Keep turning. I am here.

I rewrote this poem seven times. Every time the last line sounded like a slogan, until I stopped looking for a line that sounded good and wrote only what I wanted to say to the fan. My hands were still a little damp after a day of repairs, the smell of soap on my fingers mixed with ink. The poem did not solve anything about the room. It only showed me I had been lying the wrong way round for three months.

The next morning the fan was still sweeping the far half of the room. I made an iced milk coffee and stood watching it for a while. For the first time I did not feel sorry for it, only that it was diligent, like a quiet colleague.

Perhaps there is an object like that in your home: a rice cooker that still cooks for two, a second cup turned upside down on the shelf, an empty hook. They say nothing, but they go on working as if someone were there. Sometimes it is enough to look at them for a long time, and you notice something you had not yet put a name to.

The first time, many people feel awkward for talking to a rice cooker or a fan. Some write line three with surprising speed, and some manage two lines and sit looking. After a week, some people find they look at the things around the house a little differently, and some notice nothing and simply have one more sheet of paper. Both are fine.

When to seek professional support

This article is a short poem and a small writing exercise about familiar objects in a room where you live alone. It cannot replace treatment, and I am not promising the feeling of emptiness will disappear once you have written.

But here are a few signs you should bring to a professional, rather than carrying them alone:

• The sense of being alone lasts for weeks, and you no longer want to see anyone, even people you were once close to.
• You feel everything around you is empty and nothing can reach you, for many days in a row.
• Your sleep or eating has been thrown off for a long stretch, and you feel unable to do the ordinary things of the day.
• You think about hurting yourself, even if it is just a passing thought

The last point cannot wait. Speak with someone you trust, today. The Emergency Support page explains what holds true in moments like that.

Seeing a professional is an ordinary way of looking after yourself, like going to the doctor when something in your body feels different.