Little lies

You sit at the edge of something, a couch, bed, the bar stool or at the edge of the matatu seat. You want to print your life, on the counter table, or on the screen of the window that’s next to you. You no longer enjoy the flash light from the phone’s screen or that of that television screen. You are bitter, life is bitter, even lemons are sweeter when taken after a tequila shot. That is life and it’s little lies.

It’s half past six o’clock, a chilly morning, something not known in the month of February. You are in a rush, get to town before the fare hicks, get to the office a bit early, drink lots of coffee, you are hot, hot from rage, rage only you know of. Life and it’s little lies.

Seated at the edge of something, you feel you are at the edge of your life, you want to jump, tell this bus( the one in your head) to Stop, for you to get out. You are no longer comfortable in your own skin. Life and its little lies.

Its Friday, a few minutes to seven, the sun is setting, the weekend seems longer than usual, you hate weekends, you are always idle, no better half to keep you busy, so you buy something to entertain you, a drink, sour when you take its first sip, but sweet as you finish drowning it. The sun( the one in your head) never seems like it will rise. Life and it’s little lies.

You want to paint your life, or write about it, words lack, you don’t know which colors to use, everything seems grey, or red, maybe black, that will be a sad picture to paint. You take a piece of paper, an old pen that you’ve never used, you will create words, write, write something beautiful, something someone will read, something someone will enjoy. NOTHING an hour later, you’ve only scribled, life, life, life.

Maybe you should paint life, it looks yellow, with streaks of white, shadows of blue and bits of green. It looks like happiness, with touches of pink, brown, purple, something like a rainbow after a heavy down pour.

Now you want to write more about it, use words like, happy ever after.

You wake up, its a few minutes past three, it was a dream. 

Life and it’s little lies.

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