The last 20 hours

There’s alot of things I find more interesting – than the papers that cover the dining table.

It’s five minutes to six o’clock. Think about the road congestion during the peak hour, as the commuters scurry to go home. It is oddly similar to the inflow of knowledge, cramming for the final exam of the year I am to sit for tomorrow. 

The past week has been nothing short of torment: it bolds my inadequacies, tainted confidence in italics, and strikes out almost every remnant of certainty in a barely conscious soul.

I gaze, helplessly, at the goldfish who lost its other eye. When it was smaller, it lost the first – perhaps mistaken to be food to a greater goldfish. Two days ago, it lost another. I imagine the fish to resemble a fearsome pirate who wears an eyepatch over his right eye. And he goes into a brawl, only to end up losing the other. I cannot fathom how he continues to stay alive. But a goldfish has no tears, and it cannot cry. Beneath the shiny golden-orange scales, must lieth so many woes. It must be painful.

In another possibility that runs through my mind, I picture the fish to be a victim of bully. But there’s so much resilience residing in the fish, it continues to live on. It does not swim away from the reality that burns, it strives each day to swim – and swim, it will.

But here I am, having not even half as much of that resolution of a tiny goldfish.


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