An untypical wednesday.

I promise i'll start work tomorrow, and i'll work doubly hard. I promise!
Just give me another day to fight the monsters swimming in my intestines, laze in bed for a whole morning, then choosing to ignore the huge pile of work on my desk, pretending i didn't see the calendar (choked to the brim with "to-dos") stuck to the wall. Just sleeping the day away...lazy and idly as if nothing in the world mattered more than rest itself.

one more day of procrastination. I'll start tomorrow, i promise.

Lucky I still feel a semblance of guilt. it means that i still care about my work. 11 more weeks, including this, to go!

New

I've decided to take part in this weekly writing thing called the Sunday Scribblings. (link's up there) Each week they post up a one word topic and lovers of words would write a story, a poem, or anything about it. I took part in it because it sounded interesting and hopefully i'll meet people who also love to write. So this week's topic is "New". I wrote a poem about it. An amateur, I might not be the best but i'll learn :)


3.30.
The sun sleeps in his little house in the West,
purring gently in slow rhythmic breaths.
And so does everything around him,
under the watchful gaze of the moon.

5.00.
The sun prepares to go to work.
He crawls out of bed, goes to the toilet and makes himself a warm cup of coffee.
In between sips, he thinks,
"Which route shall I use today"
"East, like always,"
Routines breeds familarity and he found assurance in it.
And so the sun puts on his coat,
and sets off on his journey.

Meanwhile.
Over the hills, nature shivers with anticipation
as they wait for his arrival.
The cool morning dew begins to form,
On blades of grass, furs of animals and windows of houses.
A condensation of the night's hustle and bustle.
The moon yawns, his eyelids droop down heavily.
"A few more minutes", he told himself.


0559
The sun walked four streets,
past six corners and two junctions
before he finally arrived at the east gate.


The gate.
With reddish brown metallic elements falling off its surface,
still stand erect, tall and magnificient.
It has watched the many suns walk past its doorway,
every dawn, at five, for as long as the planet's birth.

0600.
The sun pushes the gates open.
He takes his first step through,
Walks up the stairways to the sky,
takes the place of the moon,
and shines.

A faint orange glow,
then brighter, brighter
and finally a warm yellow hue.

Spreading across plains,
Through windows of houses,
past canopies of leaves.
Beckoning its occupants awake from their dreams of the night.

The sun shines.
A new day has arrived.

Where is the relief?

Relief;
it is not overwhelming. It doesn't hit you like a wave, sweeping you away with its currents.

Instead what it does, is to sneak up behind you and gently pat your shoulder.
So light, it's easy to overlook its presence.
Sometimes, it hides behind a pillar,
observing, scanning, watching
and finally when you least expects,
it spring out like a jack-in-the-box
and says, "hello"

Tonight, it just doesn't appear,
though it is supposed to.

House (s)

Living in the same white-washed walls,
eating from the same plates during dinner,
and breathing the same heavy-fogged air,
we're shouldn't differ too much.

But it's a pity.
The similarity only ends there,
for after it, we open the doors to the little worlds of our own,
enter. close. and begin,
leading seperate lives.
opening it again only for meals, weekends
and post-school days.

My house houses five houses.
These houses operate on different frequencies.
They have their own language, wavelengths and ideals.
Diversity is great in a country,
not a house.

Sometimes, in fact very often,
misunderstandings do arise,
and when it does,
so begins the silent firing of missiles between houses,
curses, expelatives hurled like comets,
raining down at ferocious speed.

crushing. destroying. down.
it offers satisfaction, but only momentary.
then guilt sinks in, and it stays.

But ultimately,
these houses still belong to one house.