Under the scorching sun
he trudges through the day with a heavy heart and a pounding head; and legs as
heavy as weights. His chest burns like a furnace. Sun rays attack his eyes with
a fierce intensity, like they intend to blind him. His vision blurs as sweat
drenches his face. He’s not stopping. He will not stop. He can’t stop. He
stumbles forth. Directly towards the retaliating sun. If it means crawling, he will crawl. He will
do anything to keep moving ahead. Where are the clouds that had promised rain just
yesterday? Why can’t ‘things’ learn to keep their promises? It won’t rain on
him. Not today. But beyond this blazing sun there is place where it rains
always. A place where there’re no brutal conditions, no death of any sort.
Hence he has to keep moving because right there, his Father waits. Angels are waiting. He wipes his wet face
with his sticky hands. His throat cracks for water. Not here, son. You’re not
going to get water here. Keep going…
In My Room/Office/Studio
"A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right." - John K. Hutchen.
