Vagabond

Hours of calls that go on nonstop, worries keeping me on my toes, hands pulling at my hair in frustration all the time, I crumple down almost everyday.

I never know how to tame my demons.

I never know what to do when they feed upon a little life left in me.

I sit by French window, watching pointless sunsets and indifferent blue lake in distance.

I give the glass a useless swirl till waft of rum fills my nostrils.

I talk my point of view over insipid cups of tea, blandness seeps into my conversations too.

I see my life going astray like aimless smoke of my cigarette.

At the end of the day, he asks- 'How was your day?'

As simple as that.

I live a little more.