'The City Sun Sets Over Me'

Sat in a cubicle. Work. Work cluttered desk. Screen in saver mode. A red pen against a black one. Inadvertant art. A paper puncher sits atop the stacks of paper. Some lost their paperclips during the few movements. Some held still. Adamant. He moved in and out of the cubicle to another desk. Of less clutter. Indecistion. Work conducted there with neatness and company. Advice. She speaks across from her side of the desk. He gets up once in a while to retreive the respective files. Exercise. Conversations continue, or at least weave themselves in and out, during the course of work (and at times, 'work'). He doesn't wear a watch. Reminders. Time moves faster that way. He doesn't like it anyways, the watch. Not now.

Out on the streets. Breeze from the sea. Cornered into the small lane. Traps. Indirect indications of rain. Or at least drizzle. Reminders. He wants it to rain. The guard offered him his umbrella. Said, 'No, thanks' with a smile. Too many colors. Pride. Headache. His head is pounding, has been pounding for the last couple of hours. Lack of work (?). Restrictions. Clutter cleaned and taken into filling room to be deposited and retrieved for tomorrow's use. Work in the form of papers. Is still work. Decisions. Thoughts interweave itself between work. Takes a dark form. Negativity. Doubt. Feeling down. Messed up. Walls house everything in. Cubicle houses everything in. Head houses everything in. No outlet. Nothing. Takes it along for the walk. Everything.

Done with dinner. Semi-content: stomach capacity wise. Waits for the bus to move. Bus waits till everyone's packed into it like sardines. Money. Greed. Laziness. Driver is nowhere to be seen until the bus is nearly brimming with people. One man collects fare. He paid the man a crumpled ringgit note. He tries to read his book on the bus. It's too dim. Stubbornness. He can't understand a single thing he's reading. He reads anyways. Stubbornness. Imaginary gun cocks in his head. At his temple. It's almost resounding. His head hurts. He wants to meet her. 'Meet' her. Reaches point of destination. Suddenly everyone's in his way. Clutter. Mess. Obstacles. He gets into the elevator. Rises. Breathes out hard. Semi-relief. Goes into the cafe. He waits for a while. Her name is displayed. He waits for her to reply. He waits, and waits, and waits.

Then she replies. He is still down. Negativity. He shares a little of what is going on. In his head. The Everything. She consoles him. Cares. But she is tired. He has been tired. Is still tired. Stubbornness. On both sides. He hangs on to every single word she has for him. Desire. He is dissapointed to see that she will be going off soon, as she did say that. Misses her. He shares more of what is disturbing him. He sees no other way. Honesty. They talk. As they do, the clutter, the strings, the webs begin to unravel at their seams. He is slowly being relieved of what is hitting him repeatedly; was hitting him for the whole day. Realisations. Fears become unfounded. He feels better. Much, much better. They talk some more, until one of them leaves. But the one left is feeling better, much better.

(" , )

Listening to:
Whitelight's 'Swirling Memories'