describing my normal


​Trying too hard to preserve life, we tore our skins. We were dysfunctional, faithful to all definitions of disorders, or as she liked to say, "Chaos Exhibit A." Waiting for our springs to bloom life.

We lose sleep over our mind's days of slumber, seldom slender than the line between reality and fiction. We've fictionalised every moment to the point where we cannot recognise it for what it is. We see a filter block our eyes so much that we need it to see clearly. We've adapted to darker colours and normal people. They just don't see it. The flimsy cover that hides what has decayed inside.

We’re different. We’re the same. We’re broken. We’re hurting. Not in vain.

I'm spending nights writing letters to the broken, hoping they'd mend, and I'm spending days destroying the letters after reading them and failing to fix myself. The clockwork has been jammed beyond repair, and replacement costs more sacrifice than what the world accepts. The price for a reset is more than my capacity for going on, and I cannot pay for both.

But the band-aids haven't dried. The phone hasn't died. I hear a voice at the other end screaming my name and I am beginning to hate my name in newer ways, hoping they'd forget it sooner, but they think screaming more will break my silence.

My hesitation does not count as communication for them. They want answers that are easy, that they can comprehend. My tongue cannot afford them. It dries in the silence, feeling too heavy tonight.

My throat has more lumps than I expected, because now the weather is cold and my head colder. I feel like screaming but my ears are used to my silence. They don't question it. They don't lament it. They don't scream back. They just fall back numb, and let me drown, let me lose balance and fall again, and again, and again until I'm not hurting just somewhere, only everywhere.

I do not want death. I don't seek it. I do not ask for it. I merely want to sleep without my sleepless slumbers of reality. I just want to let hope grow, without me cutting myself up thrice just to see myself smile.

I just want life to breathe before breathing can be called living.

I want to be, and not just be.

describing my normal
Written by Yash Raj Talan


[note to self: you have never cut yourself. don't.]

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