Day in the Life of A Street Cat

Warm. Humid.

The prowling street cat never sleeps. Always awake, always watching. The sharp piercing eyes judging the quality of your soul, lends it an air of regality despite its coarse, dull appearance.

It moves–she moves–with dignity and grace, as if living in the cold darkness of the outside world was not an outcome imposed by the cold hand of fate, but a proud display of independence and disregard for droll, earthly concerns.

A fine coat of soft grey hair, eyes the cold of the night, it is a creature that seems more human that humanity itself. It knows what it wants, and nothing will stop its way; a little nuzzling against a passing foot, not begging, but a business-cat striking a deal.

Nightfall - recurring dreams

Dreams that are exactly alike, down to every last detail.
And not in a friendly manner.
They make you wonder if they carry a special message or calling. Perhaps you only ever have the same dream, but sometimes, you forget before the dawn. Sometimes, you forget and all that remains is a nagging feeling that you shake away.
To be revisited by a familiar childhood dream, is it a blessing or is it a curse?

Fate

It wasn't until I really started thinking about it that I realized I've always believed in the little symbols. What is known as fate. And it's a beautiful thing, to think that some things are meant to be, that some things are more special than others. Perhaps that's not the most accurate description, because if you believe in fate you're supposed to take the entire package for what it is, but that's how I see it. To think that precisely because no matter what, and in whichever sequence happens, it would still lead to an inevitable destination, a decision, an epiphany. It's really rather romantic.

Cheap Birthday Candles

It's scary how much control our emotions have over our lives. Or at least my life. Perhaps a more accurate word would be 'state of mind'. It determines every single movement you make, every single word you utter; it determines your responses and reactions to those around you, those you care for and cherish. The same people towards whom you may feel a sudden inexplicable and completely unjustified vengeful distaste for, leaving nothing but regret and self disgust. On the good days all is exceedingly well, you wonder how you've ever managed to cope with being such a miserable person. Nature blooms with quiet vitality and speaks a secret language that only you are familiar with, the words on your favorite books flow smoothly and naturally, everything seems to be perfect. But the new friendships that have been built on these good days would only fade with the change in your temper, rather like one of those cheap birthday candles, lasting only as long as its eleven centimeters of wax can burn. Strangled echoes of what could have been. It's rather disturbing really. Because no one else seems to be that way, to experience the same sort of hopeless uncertainty. And that's your cue, it's when you look at the others and realize what you're feeling is singular. That's when you become bitter and jealous. You notice it too, the subtle changes in their response.

Awe

To be awestruck by an object, a piece of art, an idea, is an interesting experience, sometimes even an elevating one. Because one's awe, is like a hot iron, or a stamp, it marks the object in question as one's own. Or rather, it consumes, like an amoeba of some sort, everything striking. everything of importance, everything about the object, essentially, that rouses one's awe. And it makes it part of one.
But to be awestruck by a fellow sentient being that is a person, one is abased, one is reduced. Because in being awestruck by another person, one is absorbed by their awe-striking qualities, and rendered into nothingness.
And when identifying what we perceive to be our inferiors, we are displeased, while it is also displeasing to be degraded. Perhaps that is why there will always be a wall of some sort, no matter how thin its membrane.

Close your eyes.

Close your eyes. Close your eyes, and count to ten. Slowly --

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

And when you open them again, don't blink, open them even wider, like a camera lens zooming in. You'd have crossed into a world so vastly different and yet so vexatiously unchanged. It's as if some one has swapped everything-- the broken pocket mirror, the half filled bottle of water, the blunt pencil, the untidy coils of wire, for an exact replica of itself, blemish and all.

And yet the same wall calender flaps rhythmically, unconcernedly, as the ceiling fan cuts the air, spinning round and round and round. Your bare legs rubs against the same coarse cloth that is the bed sheet. And yet something, something's off.

Lying, motionless, your eyes closed, feeling the uneven covers beneath you. What's supposed to be recognized as a manifestation of relaxation and idleness, heightening the effects of the paranoia, the chaos, the cacophony that is your thoughts. It's like a chord of clashing notes, out of tune. Like a bunch of words, printed one atop another, in different fonts and sizes and angles. Everything's making sense in a nonsensical way. And you just lay there, brows knotted, not knowing what you want, or rather, refusing to know. Like a musical box, stopping abruptly, awkwardly, in the middle of a phrase. You don't know, you don't know, you don't. Know. Yes, of course you do, you're a coward. And that's what they do, cowards, isn't it?