The Malady Of The Discontent

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

A pile of broken glassware from the night before stares at you from down on the floor. They have splintered your hands but not exactly your spirit. A pregnant pause marks itself in time as you watch yourself react and yell out to squash the acute pain and then pull out what's not already buried deep within.

The floor is a mess of embodied and abstract remains. Cluttered willy-nilly are a life-time of stale conversations and insipid half-baked attempts of forgive-and-forget. You must head out of that old creaky door regardless of weather foresight.

Outside, the winds sing an unfamiliar song that seeps through your oil-clogged pores. It's still feverishly hot even though you've taken showers every couple of hours. The thick slab of sweat that sits plastered on your skin dries to atoms and back to liquid form. Your mind is weighed down by an anchor of overlapping emotions.

You feel your feet slip snugly into worn out shoes. Oh boy, do you feel worn out too.

You catch the sight of long-limbed trees that border the dusty streets. Well, this seems like a place where people could feel like they belong. But the world's full of places like this, built on repeat, only to become a condescending shallow facade. You can't be blame the location for the absence of a distinct feeling.

Yowls and growls of tom cats fighting for a meal or a mate or two break your reverie apart. These feral beings would not trade their existence for a life filtered through your muddied vision. Now the sun's casting a judgmental ray on the back of your already burnt neck; are you really set to leave or is this some kind of a cheap mental detour.

Whenever a vehicle passes you by trailing smokes, dusts and dried leaves, you hyperventilate. Your story blows that you contemplate beheading its narrator. The road's not winding nor is it long. The end is of course, anticlimactic.

Standing still under a shadow of a fat cloud, completely dislocated in an essential way, you scream. The neighbors will call the police or pretend to be deaf. It doesn't matter. At the moment, you're keen on being rabid for what it's worth.

The deep roaring tease of a thunder rolls in a distance. Where you are, sweating and flailing like a maniac, an army of ants mistakes the salty droplets as blessings from the very holy above.

Image Credit:
Man Walking by Audrey Grant


shanaz@RS | 5:57 AM | Labels:

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