The sun is Jealous. A relentlessly Jealous bastard.
He’s been stuck. In the Same spot. For fifty zillion years. In the Same sky. He will be for another 38 zillion years. In the Same galaxy. At the center of the Same nine planets.
The sun has been stuck with Same. He’s Jealous of Us.
We have two thousand billion spots to get stuck in. One spot every moment. Feet here now, there now, I’m gone now. We have twenty four different skies everyday. Walk. Sit. Stand. Pace. Lie. Lie. Silence. Scream. Nudge. Drink coffee. File knives. Arrange books. We have arms with fingers dangling at their end, we touch everything we see. He’s jealous we have all this while he’s just got Same.
So he Burns
burns burns burns
Burn one half, then the other, then back to the first, burn, flip, burn, flip, burn. It’s a methodical burning. The skies first. Air. Mountain summits. Burn ice. Aeroplanes. Penthouses. Trees. Water. Ground. Burn our feet.
The sun has burnt a permanent fear into our eyes
lest we look him in his and laugh at his plight.
He blazes so much, at times he rains. Like today, now. Five minutes of surprise rain bang in the middle of a noon scorch. Hell it’s not rain – he just burnt himself to a sweat, the insane blob of fat orange.
And now look, he returns. Slips back into that bright orange-yellow vest that holds his brimming bosom. Fat sun - swallows our seas, our rivers, our terrace water tanks and burns at us in return.
Why doesn't he just burst vest and all
