Mis-shoe

"Closed," said the placard displayed on the window. It was an autumn morn, in the early hours when the leaves hadn't yet shed all of their dews, when I couldn't help but sit at the damp wooden bench, to wait for my order at the shop. Around was the city under the blanket of melting sunrise, faint morning bells and an emptiness, projected right from inside my heart to upon the streets. Somehow the footfall denied sides of this place, felt more familiar to me each growing day. I am not too fond of silence and solitude, but they were my sole companions at that point, and I never knew I had my soul strings attached to them unknowingly for so long; perhaps because they fed the pandemonium of voices within me with a place to survive. 

 

Art is something which has always resided next door to my heart, be it the art of self-alienation leading up the self-consciousness ladder, or the demised heart of a marble statue which no longer worries about death, mostly the heart of a poet- no one knows if it dies with sorrow or with joy at this moment. And a certain amount of loneliness is inevitable for the creation of such art, of songs searching the soul within the soul. But I call it misogyny to just force men to earn, and women to chore, and when I speak about it, this art becomes war, firing the same soul it calmed down with cold water. Art is basically, all encompassing, a constellation of all stars.

Introspecting all these thoughts as if I'm the greatest of the great philosophers and thinkers, while in reality I'm a burrowing mole, I had few glimpses of the beyond, the universe ever-expanding, where? How come? I don't know. I was trying to make sense of this feeling, this body feeling incrementally smaller till non-existence, till dust, while the soul deep within feeling bigger till immortality, till cosmos, till… The grass blades suddenly tickled my feet, telling me the breeze had returned. I heard cuckoo screeches, bicycles- a suburb just awoken from a dream. The sign still said "closed," I ditheringly stood up to leave; I think for home? And some roads I'm afraid to walk, not because I'd trip and fall but because I wouldn't reach anywhere. And whenever I stop, I'd check if I'm mis-shod, to pretend to people I'm not way-lost, unbroken.