𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐚

i.

you sit on the porch, in front of the closed doors which shield the shouting humans, with your palm cupping your face. your eyelids are heavy with fatigue, blinded by the chromic city lights, ears buzzing with the droning humming of the traffic.

you close your eyes sharply like a bird flapping shut its wings against a sudden gust of cold wind.

you have been working hard, trying with all your dedication, and there is more to do tomorrow.

you dare to glance, and your fluttering eyes look at the cold concrete beside your bare feet.

there is a little fallen leaf lying supine a little away. not of a pretty autumn-red colour, rather a worn-out, stale brown. there are a few half-burnt cigarettes that the milkman or the newspaperman must have casually flung behind them early morning. there are smooth pebbles strewn all over the pathway. it is only the suppressing footsteps that shaped them.

why, why never rebel?

in that fleeting moment, with skyscrapers perched on your shoulders, you let yourself get smothered onto the ground below, be one with it.
but you have deadlines to meet, races to run, work to tackle silently.

why, why never rebel?

the little dry leaf - moves. you never took your eyes off it. it trembles in the rippling breeze, lifts its head slowly, stands up on its baby feet, and begins to fly. you watch it dance on the wind, venturing on to the unknown tomorrow, ready or not.

you decide to take a walk.