She’s like a miniature storm,
Wrecking havoc like it’s the unspoken norm;
Completely reckless is what you’d call her
If ever alongside her you were;
Unpredictable, she’s an untamed disaster of nature;
Unique, she’s a true masterpiece of the maker;
With her disheveled hair and those wild eyes,
She never fails to be a surprise;
Gallant, she never chooses to hide;
Blunt, she always speaks her mind;
Dauntless, she’s the one who taught me how to live with my head held high.
It’s been several hours since she departed. It’s unbelievable how radiant the sun is now. It seems like he is genuinely happy, as if he has finally moved on. Or is it all just a facade for the clouds that have come to visit? Or it his way of pushing the memories far away? Shine so bright that they can’t come close.
But even if the glaring rays are a result of his joy, what will he feel when he has to leave, knowing that in a few moments, the moon will appear in the same spot? What sort of chaos will take over his mind when he would feel her presence nearby, but unable to steal a single glance? Maybe one, if he’s fortunate.
However much perpetual his ‘happiness’ may seem in the day, it all comes crumbling down when the sky darkens. They may be eternal, but their happiness forever ephemeral.
They are separated by only a few minutes on the clock.
Ever since the years of my childhood, I have always had a bizarre fascination towards the profession of a milkman. I would peek through the windows a little after dawn, when the first rays of sunlight streaked in, waiting for the local milkman to pass by on his blue bicycle, armed with a dozen milk cartons and bottles. I even developed a habit of waiting at the front porch for him to receive the usual two bottles of milk at my house.
“How are you doing today?” he’d always ask.
“I’m fine.” I’d mumble awkwardly.
And then he’d walk away coolly, headed to the next house. I noticed how content he always seemed with his job of delivery service. The fact that some looked down upon his “odd” or “blue collar” job never did seem to faze him. He walked with his head held high and a perpetual beam on his face.
Once, he told me how much he loved meeting new people, seeing new faces. Ironic—his work required him to look at the same faces everyday. But his job did teach him to see, not just to look. He might have had to look at the same face everyday, but each morning, he saw a different person.
You’re never the same person two days in a row.
Labiba's Train 