A word that the concept of wind brings to mind is harsh.
Standing in the middle of a harshly windy day that takes the cliche of hair whipping across the face and contorts it, mutates it; the hair harried and gnawed at until it’s less hair than thick, rope-like braids harried around your face, less whipping across than slicing. Such a solid wall of harsh wind that it gives you a feeling akin to panic, as you suddenly realise that quite apart from sucking and stealing your breath away, you can’t catch your breath at all, and it seems absurd to you that something as invisible as air can abruptly become so violent. Standing so far from roads and houses and cars that all you can see is this world of wind, beginning as little flurries that skate along the tops of the ripples in the sea, creating pretty little puffs of foam, before suddenly digging in and scooping up this wave of water and slamming it against the cliffs below you so that all you can think again is harsh. Standing in this increasingly blinding world of buffeting wind, slicing at your face, dragging up droplets from the sea, hurling them to sting, sting, sting in your eyes, stealing your breath out of your lungs until you really start to panic and then
The wind doesn’t drop, it vanishes. The sea is flat. The air is flat. There is nothing. Not a breath, not a feather of air brushing past you, nothing. You stand in a world of nothing. The wind, the sound, the air, is gone. Nothing stretches ahead of you, across the whole world.
So much nothing that you wish for the storm to return.