sunset saga

I promised to wake up and write. I haven’t written in a while, I’ve been dealing with a lot of things. Not to mention losing all my world cup games. Ending a chapter in life not knowing where the next road leads to. I woke up at six, in my pair of shorts and a round hat over my head. Nothing seemed to be coming from my sleeping postu re, I decided to let the cold sting my legs so at least I could think. I started turning my phone and laptop inside out - looking for a writing prompt. Sometimes the mojo goes away. It disappears to God knows where and you can’t think. And even if you think something tells you “that won’t be appealing” Two doorsteps away a padlock is receiving a beating of its life because its owner probably lost the key at the counter of a pub. He is not a bad guy because he beats the padlock while talking to it. He’s amazed how he chose himself a worthy padlock. At the window opposite someone angry from his sleep is peeping to see who on earth speaks to a padlock at 6

  First, what’s wrong with carrying a live chicken in town? Why do people look at you like you’re presenting before them a human head. Was it just an idle day, or was it the sack that made it look so odd? It wasn’t even a bad sack per se! I didn’t have a better option, trust me, the sack was the best coz carrying it with it’s legs would have made me lose a few friends. Also, if we don’t carry live chicken here on earth where will we carry them? We got to do what we have to do because life is one. Lastly on first, people should mind their own business…  Second, what matters in life? Thinking liberally, independent of religious strings, societal normalcy and cultural standards. You matter, but at times even, nothing matters. And other times, everything matters. Is life short or long? I would say life is life. Not short as we think and not as long as we would anticipate. Not as long because you can’t forestall your fate. You never know when cotton will be stuffed in your nose, when

It was one of those long school holidays. You spend most of your time home doing absurd things, for memories. Or rather because you have a crazy brother who will do anything for laughs. A combination of your brother and yourself could be destructive than a missile explosion.  Rachel, as her late father saw fit, was her name. She didn't like the name much. Who do you blame if some day you realize that you don't really look like a Rachel? That the left ear you see when you stare at the mirror should not really belong to Rachel. She was 14, her brother was 12. He was a freaky little boy with humour all over his face. He would make any situation look funny. You don't expect a dull day when you have Ryan for a brother. Their mom was their sole breadwinner.   They lived far a way from the rest of their relatives. The closest relative was their aunt Rosset, with whom they had a crippled relationship after her last visit. During her visit, her house was broken into and swept clean.