Sometimes, when I got really tired, sitting there in the empty bus, the right song playing on the iPod, the temperature just cold enough-- it made me shiver, the raindrops shattered as it dashed against the window, the dim surroundings broken into streaks of blues, yellows and ambers-- I toyed with the thought: When will ever I give it up?
At first blush, it sounded downright ludicrous. What a loaded question, I thought to myself. A snigger. The masochistic saboteur.
The thought ambushed me some-other-times, when I was still tired, the room cluttered with chatters-- chortles, the sun up high professing its might, a tight knot titillating my left shoulder.
The answer fled the scene. The mind focused like a broken specimen of an old-fashion camera. Adjusting. Adjusting. Failing. Failing still. The answer sniggered from its cul-de-sac.
However, some-other-other-times, the little devil flaunted its tail with a swagger that was almost condescending-- it wrote itself in my head. Crystal clear. That's it! A cold rush down my spine, a meld of relief and apprehension.
Give it up when it gets too tiring to run.
Stop running from. Stop running for. Stop standing because it nonetheless felt like running. Stop sitting because your mind kept on running. Just stop. Stop the masochistic saboteur.
Rest in peace. Not in pieces.
