Wounded.

It was a terrifying realization that…

what doesn’t kill you,

can cripple you forever.

©

Broody Hen ( A narrative)

Pit Toilet.

Nothing demands your endurance like a pit toilet,you have to hold on to get relieved. To avoid an excrement splash plunge,you have to hold on tightly to the walls so you don’t cave in with the equally dilapidated seat. While keeping your ears trained as antennas ,for privacy is never guaranteed .

You have to be physically fit for a pit toilet,in there you half crouch and half sit.
You have to be prepared to endure the smell of mixed,soupy faeces…clogging your nostrils; making your stomach churn with rippling nausea. The tickling agitation of thick ,green flies using your skin as egg dumpsites or…mating platforms.You can’t even breathe through your mouth for the fear of what you might swallow .

In a pit toilet. You never get completely relieved. You rush in there to get rid of a stomach bug, and come out a host of an even more lethal bacteria.

Broody Hen [A Narrative]

The Self.

📷MyrkoThum

He stays up all night creating characters according to his insecurities,

He crafts with his flaws their appearances, he adorns them with his scars,

He crochets their speeches with his unbearable impediments,the plots reads like the chronicles of his failures.

He omits the true sense of his views with overused periods of ellipsis, it is his personal conflicts that builds up to the climaxes of his stories; his pessimism fuels his obsession with tragic endings.

However much the strength of his protagonists,the embodiments of his fears are the forever victorious adversaries.