Hailstone

Life can be hard sometimes. Like a rock that is hard bearing down on your chest. But at the same time liquid, unpredictable. Still cold nevertheless.

I cross streets, their colours seem off. Not black or white, just grey. Or greyer than usual. Invisible stones, people walking by, in my shoes, on my chest, tied to my back.

Would shedding those stones make me someone else? Do I have to carry them around always?

It’s only the few moments of fleeting and for-no-apparent reason childish happiness that keep me up. And the nostalgia for them that keeps me shuffling forward.

Waiting for the next one to come. It will be buried under hard stone after a time, I know. And then rise again, and be buried again.

I’ll be here, waiting, shuffling. Who knows what will induce next.