It took me a while to realise that I was born. At one side of my body was I, clinging to the huge chunk of flesh. And the other side of mine felt light, like a feather hanging out to fall dead from the parent bird. One could have a look at me and see right through me. I reflected my parent flesh, leaving no colour or smell to my existence, but just the saltiness.
At once, I wanted to jump off my parent flesh, yet, I feared. I feared of the detachment. And I feared of collapse. But I could love the smell of freedom that it would buy me. The thought of freedom envisaging in my being. A different colour I would gain. And an existence I never knew. There were times when I was moved. And the shivers that would push me to the edge, just to fall. But I stuck in there. I was as fragile as the limb of the frailest tree. Yet I could not afford to fall.
It was that day of my life, when my parent thigh decided for a jog. A jog that would decide my future, or rather future-lessness. The big chunk of flesh shrugged like it came as a tectonic shift underneath my rear end. I held on. I pushed myself into the flesh as much as I could in a futile effort to fix my place. But it wouldn’t cease. It jolted and jostled me each time my parent thigh hits its feet on the floor. I groaned and screamed to leave my worries on a deaf thigh. I realised I was losing grip, oozing down. I held on like a commodore dragon to its prey. And suddenly there was halt. The silence and stillness that was just to define my future.
And now, I pushed hard like a mother pushing her child away to the world. It hurt me. As I flew in the air just to reach the floor to salvation. I had a final glance at my perennial place on that thigh and I realised, it did not even leave a strain. Even the tiniest mark, that I existed. I bid adieu and found my place on earth and that was final.
The Imaginary Sweat
Brookside Bench 