If not for the creamy herb chicken

in a flavourful and creamy herb sauce with a hint of garlic
on a weekday
is deliberation; why is there always a deep shade of melancholy
on the windowsill?
I coat the chicken breasts with onion and herbs,
season generously with salt and pepper.
The intellect chooses its own social gathering;
I chew upon this piece of information as the concoction
no longer pink inside
heats with another two teaspoons of olive oil and sauté garlic
with basil and oregano—
there are people who are generic, they exist within their own limitations
and shun
the ones who seem even a little bit different— I am a rebel
I thought, adding cream;
I refuse to be in the centre of the pan like cornstarch,
quickly stirring,
until acceptance like sauce has thickened slightly—
explore the world,
so often it happens that creative minds due to societal pressure
limit themselves.
I return the chicken to the skillet,
sprinkle with extra herbs and serve immediately—
there are moments
when one has to decide between following destiny and fulfilling its purpose
or succumbing
to the vengeful, the demented and the sadists who work together to form
an organized conspiracy to oppress others in the world.
to feel deeply is not a sign of weakness,
it’s a medium that sets us apart in society—
so much so that
when whispers of approval or contempt float across the room;
you will know—

“if not for the creamy herb chicken.”




Photo credits: Guest House by Yakira Eppel, Unsplash

Posted for Weekly Scribblings @ Poets and Storytellers United