Psychedelic Slippers

The alarm beeps. Meera looks at the time, 5 to 12. She hears the kitchen door squeak. She has been aware of the cautious movements outside, the hushed hustle of 2 pairs of feet; one trailing the other in puffed bedroom slippers. She puts the pen down, pushes the papers aside. The desk is a clutter, and she has long given up on keeping it neat. There is just enough open space to keep a journal and write in it. She picks up the pen to put it in the pen stand, one of the numerous mugs that that were now used to house stationery, there are paper clips in one, paintbrushes in another, and lazing between them all is ‘that’ old paper cup with hearts, brimming with coins. She turns towards the door. A minute to go, “should I barge in on their preps, or wait patiently pretending to be busy and forgetful”, she thinks as she turns out the lights. The clock strikes 12, “Mummaaaa” a gay voice fills the room and her thoughts. She smiles and picks up the 3 feet bundle of demands, kissing h...

"For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command or faith a dictum. I am my own God. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us. We are here to read these words from all these wise men and women who will tell us that we are here for different reasons and the same reason." Charles Bukowski Original article: The meaning of life