F for flimsy

In response to the  a to z challenge

Laze sweeps through my limbs, a slow exorbitant fire that lights up under my closed lids. The familiar beats float through the air, and the sense of being alive collides with the unfamiliarity of the familiar space.

The laze is in the ache of my ankles, the dry chapped skin of my lip, in the milk encrusted bowls dumped on the side. A thin skin, a flimsy layer of apathy that stretches over me, waiting to break at the slightest incentive.

But the incentive doesn’t come, and the hours wash upon the shore, uncaring, listless. The mountains overgrown with trees and men in the distant, the honk of cars nearby, the placid river flowing in its own uncaring course. The smell of cooking curry, and the sunlight on marble tiles.

The languidness flows seamlessly through the cat stretching on the sidewalk and through my soul. It chews on the rough-hewn dialect of the natives, in the clothes hanging in the balm of summer breeze.

The world is bound by a common thread of inactivity, the heady sunlight and an unwavering ceiling fan, spinning threads of sleep into your soul.

The magic of an afternoon, when time is still, and the city grows dim in its siesta.

The evening bell is silent, the kind of inevitability that is unremarkable.

Just when you think you have reached forever, There is a sudden call, a flurry of activity, the birds fly home.
And the curtain is lifted, it’s time to wake up again.


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