5:41pm, 15th October, 2016


3 mins

To everyone who’s passed by me, seen me in withers and has been kind and soulful enough to stop by and speak to me, thanks for asking, or let me be more honest and forgive me for it if your delightfully ‘understanding’ brains can, for interogating and inspecting why I was the weird one around you and why I couldn’t, just couldn’t be like you all.
Its funny, I must admit how you all do it the same way, how you come up to me, your voice so casual, words dripping from your constantly parting lips like your mouth couldn’t contain them anymore.


Image source : (photo by : Peter Lindbergh)

“Oh, so you’re depressed?”
Isn’t that how it starts, the ‘interogation?’
“I don’t know” I manage. Its really all I usually come up with in response to your sudden openness about the life I live.
“Ah, stop being sad then. Stop being this way. Stop overthinking.”
A smile escapes the corner of my worn out face, worn out on the inside, that is. Funny.
“Absolutely. I’d stop ‘overthinking’.”
And, I let it go.
Let it go, again.
Let it go because I can’t fire back at you, the emotions that choke and strangle me, almost to death. I can’t find things in real, painful enough to chisel down and tear away your skin to tell you how it feels to have needles stuck under your flesh every morning, quietly rotating under the nerves you’re built of. I can’t explain how it pains to inhale, like my new born lungs, dysfunctional and unfamiliar with their own work in my body.


Image source : (photo by : Peter Lindbergh)

I don’t think you’ll understand what it feels like to sit between four walls, each of which moves closer to you each time you let your stout lungs have a share of the conditioned, stale air.
I can’t tell you how the muscles in my face pain to smile in front of you because not one cell in my body contributes to that curve on my face. I can’t let you know how rough the skin under my eye feels because all I do at night is sit and watch the fan rotate, the count of which I lost long long ago. I can’t put into words about how empty each morning feels, and how nothing can feel like so, so much.
I listen to you but your words don’t reach me anymore. My brain tells me that they make no sense.


Image source : (photo by : Peter Lindbergh)

I can’t make you look at my wrist, can I? The scars of my battle still recite stories. To my mind, they’re all just designs. But I’m sure you’d think different.
I can’t tell you that every morning when I show up, I don’t want to. Starting the day alone takes away a part of me, feeding on me, consuming me the best it can.
Lights don’t scare me, but I no more mind them. But darkness, its quite a home, you know. It accepts me like no body else.
There are nights when I close all the doors I can to contain myself, pat myself on the head and tell myself it’ll be over. But its never, never enough. Food tastes nothing like food and I pretend it does because normal people do that. Don’t they?
I exert and I run, thrash myself, tire myself away to doze my mind off but it never works. Days become suffocating when I feel alone in crowds. It pains to feel so much, you know, but I can’t tell you.


Image source : (photo by : Peter Lindbergh)

I’ve been helpless, like looking around for answers I’ve got no questions to because very often problems are not even treated as problems, why ask for a solution in the first place, eh?
And seldom I ask for help, for a hand to pull me out. Seldom I remain open for someone to pass by, stop and read and seldom I fall weak.
But when I do, you ask,

“Oh, so you’re depressed?”
And it takes all the life in me to say,
And once again, it escapes your mouth.
“Ah, stop being sad then. Stop being this way. Stop overthinking.”
A smile escapes the corner of my worn out face, worn out on the inside, that is. Funny.
“Absolutely. I’d stop ‘overthinking’.”
And, I let it go.
The weird, funny kid around you lets it go.
Lets it go, again.

Feature image source :