I opened my eyes. The sun was bright. I don’t know the time, but maybe it was 5:00 AM. It was late for me to get dressed up for the unusual fight.

I did my bed-or maybe the tyrants call this folding the cardboard-then wiped my face with the un-stolen sock. It was very cold for me in the summer stream.

I polished my shoe and went for work, collected the newspapers, and started distributing them to where they really belonged.

Around 7:00 AM, I stood tall in the queue and waited for the bus to come. The bus was made of mirrors. I took it, and everywhere I looked, I saw myself with utopian dreams-every “me” trying to push myself backward, trying to force me off the bus.

I didn’t remember if I had my breakfast.
Should I thank God for making my memory weak?
Or curse Him for really making my memory weak?

I Don’t Know.

But yes, I didn’t remember yesterday’s pain.
The work we do is so big for none, and so small for fun.

I met a lady daily when I took my lunch. She and I stood in the queue of homeless us. She asked my age, and I baffed in front of her face.

I didn’t remember the complete meal I had last time, and she was asking for my age. All I remembered about my meal was this:

“It was the period when some white-dressed came and picked me up. He put me in his jeep, clicked some pictures, and handed me a packet full of bread and a bottle filled with juice. He also gave me a dream-something with a cover to hide in.

When I asked, “What’s your name?” he replied, “Your next PM.”

I was confused and amazed. What did this name have to do with anything? But I learned one thing from him: to ignore what others say and think. Then I went to sleep and again woke up at my time, when the sun was bright and I couldn’t resist.”

She said, “Oh, dear fellow, it’s late for me to meet my other shallow.” Then She and I walked away, away, and away.

There was a child in the road. The in denotes his burnt feet had melted and filled the pits and holes of his street.

I Don’t Know,

What was his colour.
I saw him every day in silver-grey painted colour. He was like a statue with no motion, or indeed, the motions of his heart had stopped together. Left like a structure built of hollow bones and fleshy meat.

When I asked his mother why he was not moving, she replied, “He is gone to me.”

I got confused. I asked about his father. She gazed at me.

I asked once again, “Where is his father?”

She looked into my eyes and spoke:
I Don’t Know.

“It means?” I asked.

She replied:
“One night I was sleeping on the road, as they say. One car with four men in suits came and tore my cloth. I screamed, I screamed, and I screamed. And they raped, they raped, and they raped.

I Don’t Know.

From four, whose child he is. But for sure, he is gone to me. They were kind enough to throw a dress with holes, which exposed my breast. And I was indeed motionless. That’s why I say he is gone to me, and I clap.”

My hands were shivering, my heart pounding. When her story ended, my eyes were watery. I had nothing to give but a lot to take-not her body, but her mindset. Not removing the cloth, but putting a blanket again on these acts.

Because of her, I missed the bus. I blamed her for making my work absurd.

I decided to walk to my home-which they say is a roadside floor-footpath.

On the way, I met a dog, playing with his tail; ring-a-roll.

Then, I met a girl stitching her torn cloth. When I asked how it got torn, she hesitated and replied, “When my dad comes home, he will bring a new stall.” She hoped for her dead father to come and bring her new cloth.

Then I moved forward.

I saw an old man sitting on a broken bench. I asked to replace his spot. He replied, “It’s my time to go! It’s my time to go!”

He was right. What can an old man do at the stage of saying goodbyes?

Then I saw a crowd shouting at a boy. I somehow entered the space. It was a thief, caught by the people red-handed.

What they did: they beat him up and threw him into the trash.

When I moved forward, I listened to a person saying, “A poor thief deserves the trash.”

It was a two-hour walk to enlightenment I witnessed today. Just before I reached my destination, I saw the same bus made of mirrors.

But this time, I saw my face-with blood and tears.

Maybe it was a hallucination, after a tiring day. Then I unfolded my bed and laid to sleep.

But I forgot to introduce myself.

I Don’t Know.

My name but they call me Dead.