I am Thinking. I want to comb my hair. I take a brush and throw the comb out through the window. I should have opened the windows. Idon’t want to look odd, I use it to brush my beards instead.
My hair is shaggy, my beards straight. I take the spoon, I want to brush my teeth. Someone is looking at me, I don’t want to feel absent minded. So I use the spoon to scoop some sugar. I have dropped it into a basin of water. My cup of tea has no sugar, my bathing water is tasty, I am thinking!
The gas burns noisily. A sufuria of milk rests on it. The milk threatens to spill out as it boils. My hands are on the gas knob, I look at the milk. Swollen, aggressive, hasn’t it some freedom? The freedom of swelling, bulging out of the sufuria. I am still thinking, soon, my floor is covered by milk. The free milk, sweet freedom. I was thinking, just thinking
There is flower, a beautiful flower, rooted inside a clay of pot; decorated pot. I look at it, weeds are almost eating it up. I want to weed it, uproot the weeds.
One, two, I am thinking. Can’t the weed be left to live alone? Has not a weed a desire, a longing, to be cared for, tendered like the flower?
And, I am thinking, what a lonely flower, a slave of the pot. Only conversant with the soil, just a shovel of soil in a pot. Does it really know how it feels to root itself on the ground? I am thinking
I have left the weed, watered. The flower will have to die, I think because I am thinking. Or just thinking that am thinking.