I walk out of this Guest House every morning. I notice that the softy-shop at the corner is closed.
I come back every evening and notice that the shop is open. Its owner stands right next to the freezer. He wears his spectacles and stares into his old phone. Occasionally, he fits ice-cream scoops into a cone.
The same watchman welcomes me into the office every morning. He gives me the same keys to open the same door as I do, almost every other day. An empty office invites me in.
I walk out of my Office and the tea shop at the corner is brewing tea. The hotel behind it has a man standing at the door. The same man whom I see everyday. The same man in the hotel shows me to my seat.
The number on the bus I take is the same, everyday. The ticket costs about the same. The time I stay on the bus for is the same, everyday. I get on at point A. I get off at point B. The same points of reference tell me when I need to stand up and go to the door.
I walk back home and the diner next to the bank has the same old ambience. The man at the counter is invisible, as always. A man shows me to my table and takes my order. He is a mellow man. He doesn't smile much but he could light a candle with whatever little he did.
I walk by the shoe store. The same kid who tries to attract customers is standing there. The sweet shop has the same man standing at the counter. The coffee stall on the roadside has the same woman standing there. The stationary shop has the same couple running the box. The same three people keep switching places at the Guest House reception.
I come back to a room that is exactly the same as how I left it.
It feels like home when everything stays the same till I settle down. The monotony is like home. The monotony is like the song that plays on the car radio every morning; you would feel odd if you missed it.
The other day, the man at the ice cream counter was at the tea stall instead of standing next to the freezer. The man who took my order at the diner was nowhere to be seen. I felt uneasy. He then came to the table. He seemed to have dropped his matchstick smile, somewhere. I felt a bit cold. The bus I took, yesterday was not 102. It was a 11. I got dropped off somewhere else. The same things don't catch my eye. Now, I see a grill roasting chicken out in the open. I have co-interns, now. I don't think the Office bothers to invite me, anymore. I feel unfamiliar- like when you go back home but your mother had your room rearranged. New. Lost. Unsure.
I feel comfortable reading the continuous, plain, disconnected sentences in the same tense, at the top. These other sentences, though? Well, there's too much going on, too, suddenly, isn't there?
I come back every evening and notice that the shop is open. Its owner stands right next to the freezer. He wears his spectacles and stares into his old phone. Occasionally, he fits ice-cream scoops into a cone.
The same watchman welcomes me into the office every morning. He gives me the same keys to open the same door as I do, almost every other day. An empty office invites me in.
I walk out of my Office and the tea shop at the corner is brewing tea. The hotel behind it has a man standing at the door. The same man whom I see everyday. The same man in the hotel shows me to my seat.
The number on the bus I take is the same, everyday. The ticket costs about the same. The time I stay on the bus for is the same, everyday. I get on at point A. I get off at point B. The same points of reference tell me when I need to stand up and go to the door.
I walk back home and the diner next to the bank has the same old ambience. The man at the counter is invisible, as always. A man shows me to my table and takes my order. He is a mellow man. He doesn't smile much but he could light a candle with whatever little he did.
I walk by the shoe store. The same kid who tries to attract customers is standing there. The sweet shop has the same man standing at the counter. The coffee stall on the roadside has the same woman standing there. The stationary shop has the same couple running the box. The same three people keep switching places at the Guest House reception.
I come back to a room that is exactly the same as how I left it.
It feels like home when everything stays the same till I settle down. The monotony is like home. The monotony is like the song that plays on the car radio every morning; you would feel odd if you missed it.
The other day, the man at the ice cream counter was at the tea stall instead of standing next to the freezer. The man who took my order at the diner was nowhere to be seen. I felt uneasy. He then came to the table. He seemed to have dropped his matchstick smile, somewhere. I felt a bit cold. The bus I took, yesterday was not 102. It was a 11. I got dropped off somewhere else. The same things don't catch my eye. Now, I see a grill roasting chicken out in the open. I have co-interns, now. I don't think the Office bothers to invite me, anymore. I feel unfamiliar- like when you go back home but your mother had your room rearranged. New. Lost. Unsure.
I feel comfortable reading the continuous, plain, disconnected sentences in the same tense, at the top. These other sentences, though? Well, there's too much going on, too, suddenly, isn't there?
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