“She wasn't like a jukebox;
you never had to put in a dime and she never came unplugged.”
― Stephen King
― Stephen King
Evening. My thrush nightingale.
The copious energy flowing through my veins is just unbelievable. If i focused that amount of energy to athletics, the country would really never be put to shame. First things first. I head to the wide window to my left. God's creation. Spellbound. The hills cast shadows on the earth. The slow disappearing golden hue. My day has began.
Coffee. Brewed to perfection. The pen. Note book on the side. The digital friend, my laptop. The right spirit. We all sit down.
Evenings like this, warm and vibrant, need no blanket. Words are buzzing in my mind, i could pass out if i don't start now. Keys chime next door and windows lock. The world goes to sleep.
This is a blessed night. The words are just falling in to place. Either the guy with a big forehead said editing comes after writing or i read that some where. So i flow away. I smile as i feel a sense of relief as every letter and word gets a home on the blank almost full page. After five hundreds words, the room at the corner where the big white bowl resides calls. I respect calls so i answer. Minutes later, i am at the window breathing in the still night ambiance.
The street lights are on active duty. For keepsake, someone get me a job at Kamau's. The place sees dawn and dusk without moving the hinges. That, his, place knows nothing about walk of shame. By day, those with suits and choking ties walk in for meetings and a fanciful biting. In the night, minute dresses covering just the distasteful walk in and out. Sodom and Gomorrah would envy 'Bottoms Up', the Kamau's place. Salute to those of the night, you inspire my other artistic side.This reminds me that i have an unfinished painting from last weekend's scene on the canvas. Only a few strokes to make it a masterpiece.
I sip life from Dasani and sit down to finish the four hundred. A few minutes past midnight, it is done. Hooraay!!
Whistling away, i dread for the 'start of day' as those of the mornings call it. I grumble, "Mornings only have cereal and the cold polluted breeze. I wish i could sleep longer to noon." I tuck myself in as he, my rib, complains of my cold feet. Oh heck, i can't remember the last time in the life of me he ever said something positive about my legs at this hour. I guess the night makes him surly like mornings do to me.
Barely ten minutes in my catnap the phone alarm vibrates. I snooze. Not even the morning glory 'devotion' can wake my half baked eyes. The phone alarm vibrates again. I have to get up and make that champion's breakfast. He nudges me and i only hear him utter hot coffee, white shirt and meeting from the long mumbo jumbo. Hands on waist as i walk to the kitchen. My footsteps rather slow as the wood makes a squeak on every sluggish move.
I am the queen. I cannot wait for my evening to rule and thump my chest. I love when baboons do that. Weird. My to do list for the evening is set. With this morning mind block, i will do house chores and then take a long nap in the afternoon. Who sucked the life out of me? See you on the flip side where my grass is greener and where jaws drop as the painting makes it's first appearance at Kamau's.
Evenings. Lucky me, i got you and you got me.