Whistling and Blowing

Again, it's Sunday, and I have no plan of going out.

I conjure myself to have a little walk -- a wisdom walk -- a moment to reconcile things inside my head.

The sky looks so bright. The weather looks so bright. The breeze feels so right.

Everyone I meet greets me in delight.

I keep on walking and walking -- entertaining the random thoughts that crossing -- until I finally realize:
The dogs stop barking. The streets stop honking. The wind stops breathing. The cooking stops smelling. The people stop rushing.

Everything seems smiling. Everything seems welcoming.  Everything seems loving. Everything seems glowing.

Everything seems resembling.

I light up my tobacco. I don't give a damn about the freaking warning. I don't give a shit about the threatening. Or global warming. Or whatsoever hell that coming.

Perhaps, I, too, should stop the missing. Perhaps, I, too, should halt the chasing.

Perhaps, I, too, should quit the pretending.

Perhaps, I, too, should give up the searching.

I walk home. I take the shortest way.

I guess, I should not be wandering wildly in the morning.

Suddenly, I hear loud yellings. They come from the birds -- the same birds who always remind me of something.

I shake my head. I wonder why the birds stay at the same place, when they can fly freely anywhere on earth. And why are they keep chirping, singing, and harassing.

Then I ask myself the same question.

Of all the reasons I find, I say, "I wish you too, were remembering."

That, is not just a fucking sweet talking.

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