OF FLOWERS AND SUNDAYS

It’s long past my waking time but its Sunday. I turn and turn on my bed and finally moor to my right looking at the room balcony’s glass doors bright with sunlight. I can see different rays of light piercing with ease into the room. But then I wonder, why am I not seeing the tiny dust particles that float in thousands in the air and glitter in sunlight. Is the air so fresh or did I not open the balcony for long? The old man in the neighboring house that is just behind my bedroom is shouting in anger at someone, maybe his other neighbor, and I also can hear some children laughing their sweet unperturbed laughter. The room is growing chillier and I start gaping for the A/C remote on the bed. Switching it off, I curl myself back again into the thick heavy blanket and close my eyes. It felt like huge amounts of stress have been busted in that one second when I closed my eyes. But sleep was hard to get. You remember, I have slept long through my waking time! And then I open back my eyes for floods of sunlight to come in. I ask myself, how much longer am I going to stay in bed this way? Just then, I shudder inside remembering my family that does exist in the same house, maybe frantically going about their daily work just outside my bedroom door and wonder why mom has not knocked to wake me for it must be 9:30 or something. I then fixed my eyes on the books on the desk adjacent to my bed, heavily lit by the sunlight; East Of Eden, the fat and hardbound River Of Smoke and below the two, the thin yet magnificent Of Mice And Men by John Steinbeck. These books then took my thoughts over. Will I be able to read the fat River Of Smoke to the end? And then the bigger questions found their way; what is it that I would gain from reading so many books? Will I ever be able to write books like these authors have did? What must they have felt when their book has been a huge success? I close my eyes again trying to wade all thoughts away from my mind and then start to hear the play of children outside my balcony, on the road maybe, grow louder and louder in laughter. After a while, as time passed through this sulky laxity on my bed, I also start to hear the old man shouting again and wonder if its me who ignored him all the while or he had who had stopped his caterwauling for a while. With no interest whatsoever of getting out of this Sunday bed, I try again falling asleep and close my eyes, clutching the blanket tight to my body. Surprisingly, sleep strikes me this time and I let my body and mind slip into its restful hold. I then slept and slept as if competing with some other sleeper and maybe I am dreaming in my sleep now, of flowers and Sundays – and of children and their laughter.

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On The Air Port Floor…

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Stood she on the airport floor,

The sun glinted on her skin gold,

And waited before her the door,

To a new world to unfold.

 

Her lover watched her turn around,

One last glimpse before into the door,

His face darkened by the sun behind,

One last glimpse, once more!

 

Her luggage slipped from her hand,

On to the airport ground,

Eyes couldn’t help but give way!

And the world seemed to go round and round!

 

By and by she started to run,

Leaving behind her luggage,

Ran she into the sunshine,

Finally an outlet for an inner rage!

 

Stopped before him with watery eyes,

On the airport floor,

In the evening of crimson light…

She hugged him tight.