Window Seat

The rainy afternoon was just coming to an end. I was still in the yellow colour bus, which was jumping up and down in the road. I could hear frogs, or toads, I do not know. But, I heard a voice in the squeaky wheels of the bus. Just then, my friend, Ego called me. My phone vibrated and churned in my bag, and I desperately fished it out of the mess. Ego is a he. He has always been a he. I keep changing choices, wanting to be a she and then a he and then a spider, but nothing changes. He spoke some gibberish about a debate on Wednesday afternoon. We were always pitted against each other in debate and speech classes. However, we often won both ways by playing our favourite game: Parasite and Host. Ego has always been my first love, because I was born with him. No, he is not a sibling. This would make us extremely incestuous. He is my lover. A lover who sits on tree tops and heckles at me, when I sit on the porch with a ligament torn in my right ankle. I’d quietly watch his blue eyes, burning with victorious laughter. Once, he noticed me. His eyes blinded with tears and he cuddled into my palm. He slept there for hours, cherishing dusk, clouds, stars, and night. I slept with him. We all own a kind of him. His species is peculiar, unique and mine. Soon, he squiggled awake and started his morning run. Faster than ever, it hurt my thighs and arms. I tried to hold him back, and then all of a sudden he sprouted wings. He attempted to fly out of my hand. These ferocious wings have only hit me when he has needed, wanted, and yearned love: the kind he got from Pride. The phone started to hurt my neck. Only if he knew that I loved him. I was hoping too much. His gibberish continued and joined the squeaky wheel-voice, the pitter-patter, the croaking and that queer swiveling spring in my head, which was spacing out.

Ego is a funny creature and I attribute a 'he' to him. He has bright blue eyes that blind with simple tears, and that burn with victorious laughter. My Ego is blue, sleeps in my palm, and has very quick feet. We all own him. We all own a kind of him. When he takes his morning run he hurts my thighs and arms. I try to hold him back, but he flies. His wings are ferocious and hard. They hit me when he needs, wants, yearns. Ego taught me love, because he loves wearing pride as a cloak.

Who makes me fall?

No way here or there, life tumbles down the hill to where Birds and sunflowers and bees, Embrace my life, as it sees That I was born to love this and all, And to love me Earth makes me fall.