Bare feet pound the pave-stones outside of my door; I sit on a thin, purple mat on the floor. The walls they are tiled, the floor and steps too, with a bit of sweeping the place looks brand new. There are two cockroaches that live in the bath, they know only kindness and not my true wrath, I think they eat soap-scum and paper and gunk, by now they are used to my stenches and funk. The kitchen is small but has everything, from toaster to stove-top to kettles that sing, from ice-box to cupboards and all in-between, when dishes get soiled I make sure they're cleaned. There too is a house-cat who comes when she pleases who loves all my petting and passionate squeezes who purrs and meows when there's no one nearby who flees through the side door without a goodbye. It is somewhat lonesome, this much I admit, but no one disturbs me while I write or sit for hours and hours watching DVD, or enduring static-filled Indo TV. I sleep on the second floor, under a temple, at night it's so quiet it calms me much, mentally, unlike the traffic and roosters that used to disturb my slumber with ear-drums abused. From a rooftop platform I can see the sea, some rice fields, my village, and kites above me, with love in my bosoms I no longer plod, but rejoice to be on the Island of Gods.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
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