Today was just another day. Was? It isn’t yet over. No, it isn’t. But, one part of the day is different from another. Every hour the shadow lengthens. Deities in the streets. Drums roll. I read words on paper. The binding is not strong enough to withstand the strength of my hands as they hold it tight. Because I cannot hold it right. I am rhyming. No reason. It is a day when sweat dries fast. And smiles fade quick. A day when the soap is left soggy. I like watering the soap. Yes, pour water over it.
I did not spill any milk. Nothing boiled over. The tea was just right. No, a bit off. I like it that way. Tea with character. Sometimes it is nice to chew tea. If we can eat soup, why can we not chew tea?
And then I looked at some old photographs. They seem like yesterday. That is old. Pictures, even when scanned and safe, look like history. History is an ageing part of a moment.
Today is history. A moment. Lost. I rummage and find its residue in the ache I experience.