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300,000 km an hour,a rock with an inferiority complex, hurtling to nowhere in particular, dragging us all along like unwitting passengers on a cosmic bus with no brakes and a dubious driver. At 5 am. I stand here, an existential monument of half-sleep, lifting a kettlebell as if doing so might convince the universe to stop, apologize, and offer me breakfast. Up, down—again, as the mat below sucks in my sweat, sending dark circles to bloom and vanish like confused mayflies that can’t decide if life’s worth it. My body protests: a creak here, a click there, a symphony of joints staging their quiet rebellion, each micro-failure like a tiny, well-mannered anarchist reminding me I’m not quite Alice in Wonderland, who, as we know, did six impossible things before breakfast and still had time to argue with a rabbit. A sharp breath slices the silence; an inhale drags it back. This ritual, this absurd routine, as if each movement keeps the cosmos from folding in on itself like a bad tent. Spoiler: the stars don’t care. A groan escapes, half dismay, half disbelief, the sound you make when you realize the universe is probably in the kitchen rifling through your last jar of olives and muttering about late rent. The set ends. The kettlebell lowers, gravity wins another round. I look at the mat, at the sweating rings that disappear faster than a good idea. I wonder if somewhere, far, far away, the universe pauses too, smirks, and whispers— next. Because what else is there?

When the weight of the world becomes too absurd, And I stir at each sound, each trivial word, Haunted by shadows, the specter of fate, The looming disasters that knock at my gate,I steal from my bed with a sigh and a groan, Cradling my doubts like a prize of my own. Down to the pond where the wood ducks preen, Where the heron stands, aloof, serene.Ah, these are the souls untroubled by thought, Untouched by the fears that humans have wrought. No brooding on failures or worry’s cruel tease, Just ripples that dance in the arms of the breeze.And over it all, the stars in disguise, Drowsy, indifferent, aloof in their rise. They wait with a patience I’ll never possess, Untouched by ambition or mortal distress.For a heartbeat, I’m tricked into quiet release, The world and its jests forgotten in peace. And I, for a moment, allow myself glee— The scandalous luxury of feeling free.

Free

“Don’t tell me you’ve assaulted someone over a button,” Cass said, looking up from her laptop as I stepped into the office.“Depends on how you define ‘assault,’ Cass,” I replied, shrugging off my jacket like I’d just won a prize fight. “I prefer ‘instilling manners.’”Cass’s eyes narrowed, catching the faint trace of smugness in my grin. “So, what happened this time? Parking ticket? Did you yell at another meter maid?”“Worse.” I leaned on the edge of her desk, which earned me an eye roll. “A Button Re-presser.”“A what?” she asked, her voice climbing a notch.“A Button Re-presser, Cass! The kind that watches you push the crossing button but decides their touch is superior, like they’ve been blessed by the gods of traffic signals.”Cass smirked, leaning back in her chair, intrigued. “Oh, this I gotta hear.”“Right, so there I am, storming out of the courthouse, fumes practically pouring out of my ears from the latest showdown with those corporate landlords. I get to the four-way near the park. Nobody there, clear as day. I press the button—twice for good measure. And out of nowhere, this bloke in a suit, real ‘I’m-the-CEO-of-smug’ type, leans in and gives it a couple of his own pushes.”Cass’s eyes lit up. “No.”“Oh yes.” I waved my hands for emphasis. “So I say, ‘Got a special technique there, mate?’ Real polite, too, considering.”“Let me guess, he said something charming like ‘I didn’t see you,’” Cass offered with a smirk.I chuckled darkly. “Better. He called me a ‘caffeinated woodpecker.’”Cass choked on her laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. “You’re joking.”“Wish I was. So, naturally, I asked if he was some kind of ‘Crossing Whisperer.’ Then, just as I’m mid-sentence, the man—no joke—goes for the button again.”“No!” Cass was grinning now, fully invested.“Oh yeah, he did. So I told him, ‘Touch that button one more time and I’ll show—’”“And?” Cass prompted, eyes wide.“And the bloke goes, ‘Stop me, Crosswalk Cowboy,’ and presses it. Twice.”Cass’s laughter exploded, echoing across the office. “Crosswalk Cowboy! I’m putting that on a mug.”“Make it two.” I couldn’t help but grin. “So, I did what anyone raised in the school of unspoken rules would do. Gave him a Liverpool kiss. Clean, efficient. He crumpled like a bad investment.”“Oh my god.” Cass’s laughter faded as reality set in. “Wait. Please tell me this didn’t end with sirens?”“Not yet, but give it time. I’m betting he’ll need to explain the nose job to his mates over lunch.” I straightened, heading toward my desk. “Anyway, if anyone asks, I’m catching up on emails. And no, I don’t want to talk about crossing etiquette anymore.”Cass, still laughing under her breath, called after me, “Remind me never to touch a button in your presence.”I gave her a cheeky grin. “Crosswalk Cowboy rules are simple, Cass. Respect the press.” I do wish this wasn't a true story FSF

The Crosswalk Cowboy

my shoes patter, metronome slow, a cadence against the path. then it comes— a stampede, two hundred strong, like a phalanx, a swarm of evening mosquitoes in Arnhem Land, thick, suffocating, weaving like a snake down the track. crossing it, a game of frogger I wouldn’t dare.at first, one beast— then, many creatures stitched together, a tangle of life. fit, expensive women wrapped in "Active-wear," their fabric confidence. others flop in baggy shirts, hiding what self-esteem they cling to. Boston Marathon shirts strut past, peacocking, bragging at a suburban 5K.shirtless men, their Tinder resumes on display, shoes black or white, because colour is war in the battle for manhood. earbuds plugged, men keep the silence, women break it with oversized headphones.the snake’s mechanics— pin-straight runners, gazelle-graceful, and the giraffes on roller skates, an injury waiting to happen. the effortless passers chat mid-stride, others pant, and some wheeze, baby seals clubbed by their own lungs.the snake disappears, fades into the distance, as my shoes tap, steady, metronomic, waiting for its return.

Run Fun

Ah, the cosmic dance of modern words— an intricate ballet, missed calls, voicemails, reality bending, folding under the weight of who dials next.You lift your phone, that rectangular oracle of fate, only to find the missed call: a ghostly whisper of being wanted, now drifting in the purgatory of connection unfulfilled.You return the call, defiance against the silence, only to speak into the void— beep. Unbeknownst to you, they too are casting their sonnet of longing into your own voicemail, their voice trembling, futile.Pause. Somewhere, in a parallel world, a pigeon with a tiny hat watches, nodding solemnly.Who breaks this Schrödinger’s loop, this mutual wait? Do you send a pigeon with a note of surrender? Do you stand beneath judgmental stars, waiting for whispers on the wind? Etiquette lies dead; what remains is the absurd theater of your ringtone, blaring as they call you back, even as your voicemail ponders existence.Ah, connection! So close.

Missed call

&nbsp; In the African fruit republic of Kabwobwe, leadership wasn't about policy; it was about who could shout the loudest and craft the most flamboyant sentences. The seat of power? A well-worn chair under a mango tree, affectionately known as "The Sovereign's Couch." Contenders for Supreme Leader included warlords, aging philosophers, and a man who claimed he'd once beaten a lion in a staring contest.&nbsp; Yet, it was the most unlikely figure who ascended to the throne: Basil Boffo, a former circus clown turned part-time weatherman. Boffo's rise began one afternoon during an intense leadership debate broadcast from the town's only television set. Basil interrupted with a grand proclamation: "Rain is just the sky auditioning for the ocean!" Silence fell. Then came applause. Why did they love it? No one knew—least of all Basil.&nbsp; Kabwobwe's citizens were weary of serious faces and heavy rhetoric. They longed for a break, for life to be, if not prosperous, at least entertaining. Enter Basil: perpetual grin, loud red blazer, and zero understanding of governance. But, oh, how he could talk! His voice had the quality of a cheerful brass band, momentarily making people forget they were hungry.&nbsp; Observers tried to explain the phenomenon. Evolutionary psychologists claimed that in chaotic times, people sought confident figures—even if that confidence was painted on. Basil's sheer audacity and verbal flair outshone the philosopher quoting Sartre or the general whose uniform intimidated but never inspired. People mistook Basil's bravado for competence. After all, only a man truly secure in his abilities would wear shoes that honked when he walked.&nbsp; Social conditioning had wired Kabwobwe's citizens to crave larger-than-life leaders. The village council, eager for stability but lured by spectacle, endorsed Basil. If a clown could keep a crowd's attention, they figured, maybe he could keep a nation's.&nbsp; And so, Basil Boffo was crowned Supreme Giggle Commander. His first decree? Replace military drills with synchronized laughter sessions. Oddly, crime rates dropped—likely from sheer confusion rather than reform. Philosophers wept, merchants shrugged, the crowd cheered. Basil, oblivious to his accidental genius, just kept grinning.&nbsp; Kabwobwe had chosen laughter over logic, spectacle over substance. And somehow, amidst the absurdity, life carried on. FSF&nbsp;

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

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The Crosswalk Cowboy

Run Fun

Missed call

The President of Kabwobwe