stories from stills
My Feet was caressing the street

My feet were caressing the street

My feet were caressing the street, while a heated discussion about the outcomes of total resignation was escalating in my head. I was challenging myself to be more pessimistic on the face of the tragedy we called life, whereas the other me in me was quite furious with this utterly submissive attitude. Another me (who had suddenly showed up after almost 2 years of absence) was trying to introduce a freshly ironic outlook, recommending me to resign, yet pretend like I didn’t. He was always in the habit of watering down such soul-searching attempts with his ludicrously poor sense of humour, but this time he had actually touched a string there. Anyway, this ongoing friction between several me’s was sapping my strength to such an extent that I was sometimes finding myself pondering the idea of killing the other me’s inside. Then again, I thought, facts tend to be naked like the light bulbs in industrial buildings. After all, I was on my way there, to that apartment. Her apartment: the one I had hastily and recklessly left like a delivery guy who was done with his duty. I was on my way, carrying my meekness like an authentic piece of jewellery, which is aesthetically pleasing but worth nothing. I was on my way to resign, hand over the bridle, submit. I was on my way for the ultimate delivery. There was no point in discussing the matter further.