The animals are leaving the country

 

Torn in between this sun and the next, chased away by undreams – birds chirping in the pit of the stomach – it shouldn't be this hard to do, should it? Yet I hesitate. Here or there.

The pholcid lady in front of me is cutting napkins with a large butcher's knife. Looks like she is cutting through the white flesh of a fish – right under the glare of a tiger's head. Purposely.

Both the banyan and the jack trees still accommodate the occasional squirrel, yet we find this to be a negligible piece of news – to be discarded with an irritated wave of the hand, and the curtest 'tut'.

Today, I feel like the ripples on the water. Crumpled like pieces of parchment no hand can explain but absolute silence and the lucid ignorance of tomorrow. Beckoning the palm of a lover's hand.

Hidden by the leg of the chair the gecko bids its time, eyes flashing like monsoon thunder on the passing desert of the capital city, its texture that of sandpaper. Resolution akin to breathing.

There e'er is an action to be performed by someone, someplace. Some dirty deed awaiting the fated hand. Some ushered, antish, charitable act none but God will hear of, or acknowledge.

Cumbersome wish for perennity. Awkward moments no turtle can dispel. We humans are like the cord of a guitar ready to snap mid-song. We detest that outlandish twang of death.

The potentiality in each and every man to remain or to go forth, to discover the terra firma as much as the pot-bellied, dwelling man; yet here I am. Marmoreal despite the pervading dampness. Chitchatting with the migratory cardinal-clad heron.

Seeking peace also in-between the stars, where an exacerbated Darkness prevails. Where wolves' howls unremarkably linger, like the fragrance of a long-lost someone.

In the imminent cacophony of terrible times to come, one thing only remains to be done. We all know our duty when the last minute strikes. Some may so desire as to glance at the wilting orchid.

We should know better, when all the animals have fled the country, than to hide in our frail selves of brick and mortar. We can no longer translate the instinct we have blunted into numbness. Much to our pain.

In the wake of the catastrophe, the pondering remnant of futile civilisations will have to chance upon the abode of the animals. And, perhaps, will open their hearts and herein find contentment.

Though the memorable part of all this is just the word resting at the tip of of the tongue, which the fugacious butterfly sends to utter oblivion – or reveals.