Monday, September 10, 2012

Tied to your Table

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You sit there, staring at the blank screen and the blinking cursor of a silly flickering purple butterfly. Beside you, in the corner table, are four pieces of coffee-stained cups. On the other end are brown enveloped containing outputs you have to check.

An unopened lesson plan book lay beside you, taunting you with the half-done plans within it. Tears threatened to fall.

You want to go out. You want to leave. You want to walk out in the sun on that bright morning.

You hear your mother shrilly demanding you go down and be a part of the raunchy household. Your sister screams in frustration. She still had her classes but she can’t leave because of the unwashed dishes.

Your brother angrily jaunts off, carelessly leaving a house that is no longer a home.

The house settles into a nice quiet. Everyone has gone. And still, there your are, on your table, before the window, the sun burning your tears as they keep falling while you keep staring at the blinking cursor that never managed to move by itself.

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