Another day, breaking out of unconscious,
remnants of last night's late hours collected in rheum.
So, I tried, unwilling yet terrified, forced apart my eyelids,
cold fingers didn't help.
Pale, icy, crisp, God, was I finally dead?
Wouldn't dare to blink and answer.
Camus said, experience yourself.
So, I stare and stare and stare.
Cellulite on my skin, a scar nine years old, that one stubborn mosquito bite,
unshaven hair soaring as the fan spins.
Camus, I experience nothing.
Question. Was I finally dead?
Shifted focus to my hand laying flat on its back.
A body of its own,
fingers looking up, are you looking up for the same answers?
Then I did what I was too afraid to do,
A moment of wasted courage.
And undoubtedly, my finger flinched.
I blinked, disappointed. Let's be sure, I said to myself
Flinched, again.
Not today I guess. I embraced the other body, pulled it back and stared at the fingers.
Not today, I told them.
So, I indulged, but what if?
I'd be gone as good as I came.
Untouched, unbothered, unfed, clean, conformed, well accepted by all.
Nothing sought, gained, or gifted.
Bruised just as much as I was supposed to,
when in another moment of wasted courage I said, Yes, I'll live.
So, in hope to be bruised, in colours of maroon and blue.
In hope to touch dirt, seek the unworthy unknown, the worthy moments that instigate courage.
Home for people, people for home. Pride after shame, love after fail.
There are so many reasons, I told the other body.
Failed to flinch.
You'll see another day, I told it.
And in next moment of courage, I wake.











