Antsy

The mind reels like a cycle wheel of a young school boy, so quick the rotation, the spokes arent visible. Its a deserted lane, cobbled little bylane with small mud thatched homes on either side. Some with doors, some with rags of clothes hanging, barring the inside view. He peddles faster, a bead of sweat traces its way from the forehead down to the bridge of his nose. A quick sweep with the sleeve of his bush shirt and he peddles away faster. The hurry is to get to the other side. He isn't sure what the other side beholds. He imagines it to be better than the street he's cycling down. *tut tut tut* The cycle is rusty, he thinks to himself. Is it really greener?

Just then, a quick breeze sweeps the gray clouds over and within seconds, a scorching afternoon turns a shade of gray. The clouds roll in and he finds the sweat on his back drying up. His white shirt soaking in sweat, now crisp with dry sweat. He continues to peddle. He's tired. Just a little more, he consoles himself. He can smell the raindrops on the soil. He loves it. It rekindles memories. Muddy puddles, *splish splash*, childhood, carefree, running down these streets, overjoyed, the harvest would be good, if the rains were plenty. He would probably get a new shirt next year. The small joys. He peddled slower now. Letting the rain soak him, reliving the moments. 

That is when he reached, he saw it. Clean and green. Lush, thick fields. Plenty of crop. Neat lanes, with 'pucca' homes on either side. All with doors. Not a soul to be seen on the clean concrete lane. He felt the rain soaked shirt dry. The crispness fading. Would it need to be washed? He thought out loud. If he crossed the line and stepped into the Land of Plenty, he would have to make new memories for afternoons that rolled into rainy evenings. He would have to find new people to make new memories. But, he prized the people and the memories. Antsyness.

He was in a hurry to get to the other side. In a hurry, because he knew what awaited him. He paused when he got there because, he wasn't sure why he had cycled his way out of the city. He stood there next to his cycle, letting the shirt dry for a while. Then he turned around and cycled the cobbled street back to his mud thatched home. Muddy puddles and a chance of new memories with old people. He had it all. He realized. Someday, he'll tell his story. The way he found, 'The grass isn't really greener on the other side. But again, you will never know which is the greener side. Man is a confused soul, in search of a destination, forgetting it is the journey along the way, that is worth the memory, not the destination.'

Miss Rascal.