Summers are difficult, indeed they are.
When I look at the trees, right in front of my house, I sense their gravity of isolation. They want to pour out the emptiness in their roots. The sky is plain blue, no movement. The inactivity is frightening. Sometimes the yellow light scattered around falls, in hope of travelers, to walk with them in their long journeys later but the travelers are few.
I like to lie on the bare floor, sometimes I sleep too, it calms me. Sitting idle on useless thoughts is getting difficult by each passing day.
In shower, yesterday, when the colorless crystal stream was dropping and falling off my skin, I felt uneasy, as if I am losing moments. Sometimes time runs as if it were a mad horse and sometimes you cry to get past each second. Unable to differentiate, I am ready to give up.
The humidity with its mucky perspiration oozes out the evil, the same is happening inside my slackened brain.
The devil wears prada!
Singing my tune.