• saahilwho 14w

    In the morning, you are the rocks that stand still, quiet by the bay till the river streams and flows through you. It cuts through your edges, a little by little every day in the process of waking you up. In that state of half opened eyes, everything is fleeting. There is someone’s aura in the big bellied curtain, the shelves, and the pillows and in the walls, eventually spiraling down and dancing on your chest. There are broken vases lying in the corner of a dark room. There’s a smell of burnt pages. But it’s all short lived. In a second, it’s all gone, leaving you with something hanging inside your chest. Heavy, but you don’t know what.

    In the afternoon, you are the bark of a tree needed to be cut down. So you are axed again and again, by an old wise woodcutter who knows his tricks well. They ask you to hold on. You are going to be shaped into something nice in the coming days, probably a furniture they keep in the living room by the television set. Something they’ll flaunt about, when the guests come. But with the fast rotating hands of the clock, they will forget about your perfect shape too one day. In no time, you will be no different than any other. So you make full use of the lunch break, sit by the no smoking sign, forget about the promises you made to your loved ones, and finish up Marlboro packets one after another. You tap the ashes where you shouldn’t and you convince yourself everything is alright. You feel lighter.

    In the evening, you are tired of everything. In the evening, you are a leaf that hangs onto the branch and float to wherever the winds make you. You are the calm after the storm, and you are among the survivors. Yet, you envy the fallen ones, their flight so delicate - to and fro - till they’ve kissed the ground. So you lie down by the bedroom window, and blame yourself for not being happy. You sit up straight and you hope you don’t get nightmares tonight. You ask everyone you know to stay away from you because you are negative. But then the wind blows again, and you sway with it. You don’t complain. You write a ‘goodnight’ and a ‘miss you’ text. You don’t feel heavy anymore. Nobody is happy and everyone is a survivor here. So eyes closed, go to sleep, another day of being a rock to leaf awaits you.

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    In the evening, you are a leaf that hangs onto the branch and float to wherever the winds make you. You are the calm after the storm, and you are among the survivors. Yet, you envy the fallen ones, their flight so delicate - to and fro - till they’ve kissed the ground.

    ©saahilwho