A Week In-sanity
The webbed fingers of lotus leaf veins, move outwards, and quiver along the surface of water. When the breeze makes them gently sway, they send ripples out, like a thought stream that has just entered my mind.
The bile yellow light of the bulb spills out of the windows and onto the fingers of the roof thatch. A cricket sings, a flog croaks, and hot summer sweat runs down the back of the woman in the kitchen, making rotis.
When she sang out loud, all he wanted to do was run his fingers down her neck, the back of it, her spine, and the small of her back. He thought he was in love, until he met her… now he is obsessed with her voice.
On a cold, blue morning, as the sun tried to come up the horizon and push out through the clouds like the birthing of a child, dull gold sunlight crept in through the blinds in slanted fingers of honey.
Cycling down the steep slope, no brakes, pedals freewheeling… the wind cuts through her hair and makes it blow past her ears in dark black fingers of freedom… she comes to a slow halt as the slopes die down.
In a glade within a dark, deep forest, a lone flower grows, with finger-like scarlet petals. A sudden stillness is disturbed by a sensational flurry of butterflies, as they twine up in turrets and go higher, higher.
On his palette, an explosion of colours. I asked him, ‘What are you going to draw for me?’ ‘Your hands,’ he said. ‘All those colours, friend?’ ‘So I can trace the outline of every finger as I see it in my head – different.’