I Beg to
Disagree

-

Great
Sadness

-

Futile Devices

-

-

Turbulence, I think. It's raining here after a long time. The thunder's so bright the night becomes a day for a millisecond. The wind is wild, bending our neighbour's mango tree dangerously down to the parapet wall. I feel my heartbeat in my ear. And the window mat is whipping against the washing machine. Thud! Thud! Thud! My skin became cold and dry, and it hurts. I'm caught in turbulence. Sleep is nowhere to be found. Lost in the rain. Lost in the night. The light in the kitchen flickers a lot. The mat is still thudding. And my eyes are heavy to blink. Me? I feel like a statue; someone else's art, simply drenching in rain.

-

"It's easy to be a writer, but it's hard to write." Oh, for *censored* sake, give me a break.

-

'..give me my ten back,' someone shouted and I turned back, surprised. A man with a red towel coiled around his head was yelling at another man, who has a blue towel snaked down his collar. The market center of my town is an interesting place in the mornings. Every day workers gather in the center, waiting for the people who'd offer them work. As expected, they're a cheery bunch of people whether they find work for the day or not. They're sarcastic, boisterous, and constantly fighting with each other. It's like watching fully grown grass whistling and dancing along with the wind on a stormy day. As I drove past the market center, listening to the crude tantrums and gaudy laughter, I realized these workers are like my ideas. They are always present in my head, gathering every day in a hope that I'd recognize them. And as expected, they're happy and loud whether I write them down or not. Still, the thought of my ideas yelling at each other is amusing.
I could be mad, but I'm mad like my town.

-

The plants stare at me weirdly, I think. I finished watering all of them, one bucket for each. As I watch the water swiftly sink into the mud as soon as I pour, it reminds of me a child who's been thirsty but couldn't ask; not in my language, anyway. It tugs at my heart for ignoring them for too long. I once read somewhere there's an underground network of roots. The plants share information, early warnings about diseases, and water too if needed. The more I walk around, the strongly I feel they're talking about me. Swaying to the wind and sipping on the water I've poured, they are telling stories about me. About a guy who's been too late. I like to read a book written by those roots, with sentences describing my footsteps over the earth. I like to read a gossip magazine published by my plants while leisurely drinking coffee in the evening sun. I'd be a great reader. I'd be the guy who's not too late this time. I wish I could tell them that.

-

-

The fault in our words.

-