Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Way


A week it’s been, I think, since I’ve been outside four walls. Just I and walls. I haven’t been to office in a week. My work is being done somehow though it’s hard to tell how. Since what is expected of me is being delivered I’m not called. I wouldn’t know to call. I’m not a foodie, and I don’t crave for food as such. When I look at the basket it’s wiped nearly clean. A question ripples inside my head: Have I been eating out of it? I think the last time the maid marched in was two weeks ago. Either I wasn’t eating at all or-. I think the landlady forgot to chain those big dogs. From their stomping and barking I infer a craving for flesh and blood. I search for a little pocket book. It’s called Forgetting Things. I can’t find it. I cannot remember who borrowed it. It’s not there. I don’t know why. It’s just not there.


Day eight finds me wandering the streets. The kid on a rooftop sings: F…L…A…G. Her brother beside is hoisting a kite. My sight cannot see beyond its lifeline called thread. It’s freezing cold. My hands reach to zip the windbreaker. I am surprised that I’m wearing just a cotton layer. There goes an old man with a whipped puppy expression. Did his granddaughter tell him to piss off? Here comes a young lady in pantsuit. She looks the part I think. It’s hard to tell what part. This urge to be someplace creeps inside me. I’m in a taxi and I’m alarmed. I only wanted to hire an auto. It’s a traffic halt. I want to ask one of those people at bus stop if they know where my office is. I cannot bring myself to do it. I don’t remember the name of my firm. I don’t know where my workplace is.

The day after, which is the tenth day, I’m at work. I am at my desk almost through with day’s work. The basket to my left beckons my attention. I don’t know why. Those stained paper cups, do they know they’re used? I see Right and then scroll back, delete, and type Write. For a second work feels easy. I see Lied, replace i with a, e with i. For a second work feels strenuous. I don’t want to finish my work. It’s hard to tell why. I just don’t want to. I’m trying but I cannot remember my way home.

2 comments:

  1. Whoa... good one again!
    I was hooked from the beginning till the end.
    "This urge to be someplace creeps inside me". Brilliant.

    ReplyDelete

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