To a T

(WIP. I decided to post because I haven't been writing for a while.)

They come in yellows, blues,
whites, blacks, silvers -
Some swift, some slow, some rickety
like an old man ambling across the street
on a bad leg.
Luck sends tired stench or fresh scent
to greet you;
Voluble repertoire, stone silence or jagged clatter
to go? It matches engine and roar of traffic.

My mind
like the whirling of wheels
skates down the avenue.
Oblivious to the scenic flipbook
jogging by.

There was a time when he loved to run in the big open fields, his arms swinging wildly, a big smile on his face, not caring where he was running to, just bringing one leg in front of the other, then the other, effortlessly, joyously, his whole heart in the exercise. That was freedom. That was then.

Now, he cannot imagine himself doing that any longer. He glimpses it, once in a while, those rare moments which he will always treasure and love. But they are no longer part of his life anymore. He knows it, in his heart. Everyday, he wakes up early, then trudges to work, in his somber work-shirt and pants, his polished black leather oxfords, his laptop case. The trains are always crowded, filled with people's smells and grime and dirt, it repulses him greatly, yet he has no choice. There is no money for a car, and he has to stick to the routine.

At his work desk, he spends most of his time at the computer, chasing people for inputs, sending out information and reminders, planning the next meeting for the bosses, providing staff support for other colleagues when they go on medical leave. He does not have time to think, to grow, to live, when he is at his desk. It is as if time comes to a stand-still, when he works, and then resumes its ticking when he leaves for home. Everyday, he gives 9 hours of his life to the workplace. The rest of the time, he spends whichever way he likes, never sticking to a routine if he can help it. The work routine is enough.

Many times he wonders why he is doing this, but gets no answer. He does not want to do it in the long run, but does not know what else he can do. He does not have the grit of one who works for a conviction without the promise of remuneration. He is too used to the material comfort that he enjoys to want anything less.

But late at night, when the apartment is quiet and still, and he hears nothing more than his own breathing, rising and falling regularly as he sits, he sometimes remembers those days when he would run, naked, bare-footed and free in the big open fields. And it is during these times that he regrets not choosing that other life when he was given the chance.

C, once again

The writer writes for his own gratification, usually subconscious for the desire of status, just like most other male animals. Perhaps, equally unaware, the writer writes, as a means to parade the act of speech making - that, like an ironic bird song in a thoroughly inappropriate medium is but a mating instinct; but being human, with all that anxieties and irritation and all that uncertainties and helplessness, and for him at least, he writes as if a portrayal of exactly his reality might make everything better - that as if if they could see the way he saw the world, they will feel exactly the same way and know.

Samuel went out of the pub to look for Tony, but in not finding him, stood aimlessly outside the pub, examining the couple out of the corner of his eye.

The couple were both leaning against the grille of the waist-tall green fence, with the girl's left shoulder rubbing against the guy's right upper arm, both looking right in front at the entrance of the pub. Their shoulders were slumped and few words were exchanged. Were they fighting, Samuel thought. The girl's hips turned just slightly towards the guy, as if she was going to turn to face him, but then she turned back instead. Was she restless?

But now Tony appeared, shouting "Yo, yo, Samy, Samy!", and there he was, standing there, dramatically, warmly smiling. Together with his well pressed shirt and trousers and good skin - Tony looked a picture of vitality. Surely by now there must be some sign of age or that odd wrinkle, Samuel thought. Or perhaps it was just his memory of Tony, that no matter how much Tony changed or aged, he could in that face always glimpse those initial impressions of Tony as a young man bursting with energy.

And now both Samuel and Tony entered the pub. There was [J], [V] and [C], which were all Samuel's friends, and after a quick series of introductions, all urge Tony to sing a song. This was no special occassion and despite the depressed economy, merriment appeared free flowing among Samuel's group of friends; and as they appeared good natured towards him, and despite his terrible voice and the embarrasment he would no doubt suffer, Tony was inclined to agree.

But Tony was saved by Cindy, who swirled around in a charming white mini skirt, and asked Samuel "Hey what may I get for you friend? Another glass?" Samuel leaned and whispered in her ear, "Yes, and bring us a bottle of Gordon Bleu. He is a very special friend."

Amaline

Amaline is a little girl
who likes most people and most things.

She likes helping people
to get things done; things they can't get done by themselves,
even if they are as old, or older than she is.
As able-bodied - two arms, two legs.
As much time and breath.
More time
for they take long breaks and smoke,
talking, laughing, socialising, chatting on msn.

One day
Amaline ran out of excuses
for these people who pretend day by day to be doing work
While she does theirs
and all they do is point and comment, complain, whine
And the worst
was when they pulled a threat, thinking she wouldn't notice.

So Amaline
doesn't want to help anyone, for anything anymore.
She says
go to hell you assholes, and get your own jobs done.
I'm through with you.

Amaline is a girl
who does not like most people and most things.
She remembers when she was little
Sillier
And still wishes people were nicer
so she wouldn't have to grow up.

words: self // picture: karezoid@deviantart.com