The Days

Days pass by me like they have no time for me whereas it should be the other way around. They are boring days that don’t possess much colour. They are long days, that meander around memories, flow fast past meals, struggle around activities and flood into seas of thoughts that meet the horizon. They begin with sunrises, under dark blankets that I would rather spend all my time inside, and end in saddening sunsets of exhaustion of thoughts of goodbyes, leaving tears behind.

When you do nothing days usually pass by with an air of monotony that frustrates your mind. Although I can’t do much I try. I think of mundane things, like my mother cooking in the morning and asking our maid to cut vegetables, I watch as she prepares the next two meals of the day, I hear the sizzling oil and my mother’s spatula as it stirs the pot, she’s like a goddess with more hands than two that do everything, including stopping to touch my face and tell me good morning.

I ponder as the day passes and Dad sets off to work, that how long is it going to be before I am productive so I scroll down job sites, looking for jobs I’d be suitable for and come up blank having applied to eleven odd jobs when I could actually do better. I wonder when the next big break will be, or is this it for me? I twiddle my thumbs and play with my hair. I might take a bath, dance in the bathroom trying to ape Shakira and failing miserably to songs, lip-syncing the saddest of them and drawing faces on the misty mirror, the extent of my artistic skills.

My mother tries to converse with me amidst her work, and I lie down on the couch, feeling as if the world has forgotten me. I scroll through social media feeling jealous and wanting to feel the same elation they are lucky to feel. Is feeling elated a switch? Then where’s mine? I try to upload pictures onto Instagram of positivity despite calling it ‘The pessimist’s corner’. I try to write falling short of words. So I just wait for meal times to eat the food my mum serves. She still tries and I keep denying her the satisfaction of a full-fledged conversation. My mind too occupied with me.

My meds taken I try to sleep a horrible sleep or roll on the couch feeling trapped in the house envying the sunlight and its freedom to be anywhere and everywhere. The sunlight makes everyone’s world go round. I want to be the sunlight, but at the moment I am empty. I wait for my father to return and I can see my parents lobbying between the two as to who should keep watch over me. I am like an egg in an incubator somebody must watch for a crack. The meds don’t help and without the meds, I’d be dead by now.

Living must have a purpose I suppose, or is death the purpose itself? I ponder it all. My parents tired as they are, wait for me to fall asleep, earlier these days. They surveil me with care watching for signs of distress, and I feel guiltier, wishing I could make it easier for them. My days, therefore, are an ever-repeating cycle of guilt and suffocation, wanting to be cared for, not watched out for. I want to be my old self with fewer worries of when I might snap. I am like an elastic band stretched thin. Days are supposed to be beautiful and mine are like roses, they come with thorns.


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