Its becoming exhausting, finding reasons to stay alive for. its not that a calamity has befallen me. neither have I had a loss of a loved one. i wish it were that, if only I had a legitimate reason for this sadness, this emptiness. an explanation. Chronic Discontent, says google. that’s what i have apparently. its also a sin to be chronically dissatisfied with your life, according to pretty sure the Quran follows suit. not that i care. there are no real emotions that i can call mine. they’re all a reflection, mirrorred actions and expressions. smile and all will be fine. there is nothing that makes my heart move, nothing i can feel in my chest. an emptiness. sometimes i wonder if i have a heart at all, and then i remember how ridiculous that sounds. of course i have a heart, but then why dont i feel it. why dont i feel joy. the only emotion i can call real and mine is sadness. nothingness. no light. just a hollow vessel that beats and will one day stop. the only moment its not hollow is when i see my own flesh and the blood pouring out, its real. i am real. i exist. i am made of muscle and i bleed when cut. its a moment of realization. gone in an instant. and then we’re back to square one.

I dreamt of her again. Maybe its one of those Jung archetypes things. Someone whom i have barely exchanged a few words to in real life, occupies such a significant place in my mind. Maybe i see myself in her, maybe she is who i want to be. Maybe I’m in love with her.

The last time I dreamt of her she was home to a demon who wouldn’t let her die. We kept her locked up in a room upstairs. She would look down at us from the window sill, draped in her white gown, with that emptiness in her eyes. As if she was looking through us. Like a corpse that breathed and moved.

When she did die, it was chaos. Her body floated in mid air till every last breath of soul left her. Animals of all sorts, white tigers, exotic birds, sleek black dogs, came rushing in the house from every direction to mourn her. We had to close all doors.

This time round though, she was my friend. I spoke to her. She asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. “A psychiatrist,” I told her. She listened and never interrupted. We talked some more. Then she took my hand and led me to her home. It was a small room with four hospital beds. A plastic doll with ragged clothes and an IV line hung on one side, slept in each of them. “I practise on them”, she had said.

We sat on one of the beds. She asked me why I dream of him so much. If I’m in love with him already. I wanted to tell her I’m in love with her, instead I kept silent. Watched her every move, memorized it. I told her its time for me to leave, that the uber fares would rise anytime soon.

When I came out I realized I was in my own living room. I was already home. She was in my home.


It’s more of a personal growth, an obstacle within the Self that I have to overcome. I made a promise to myself. A part of me believes that I’m ready, that now is the right time. It’s amazing how much I’ve grown in these past couple of years. The worst year of my life, 2013, or as i like to call it, The Great Depression, started making its comeback last year. I could tell in an instant. I was better aware now, wiser. I knew the signs like the back of my hand. Un-called-for crying spells, cocky and bitter demeanor, sabotaging all friendships, indulging in self-destructive behaviors. All of them painted a picture. A picture I had already lived in. It took me some time to come out. I knew I was hurting, but being aware of it was not enough. I didn’t know how to help myself. The turning point was Rushaan’s death, or rather, suicide. When i heard it first, i remember forgetting how to breath. It shook me so violently. All i could see was myself in her shoes. I started imagining scenarios. Ugly pictures. Me jumping off the college corridors, me stabbing myself with a knife, me drinking rat poison. Whenever i would close my eyes all i could see was a razor smoothly running through flesh, breaking skin leaving a trail of exposed meat, blood oozing out. It was hell but it felt like home.

Once you’ve had it for a long time, depression starts feeling like that– home, a safe space, a comfort zone. You never want to get out of it. The picture is ugly but it feels like a warm blanket on a cold night. Recovery feels like a frigid breeze. And every step you take to get out is heavier than walking out of frozen lake. Once you do get out, the wind slaps you in the face and all traces of that cozy sleep escape, your eyes open up to reality.

So I made a promise to myself this year. What I am about to do may feel like a slap in the face. It maybe the worst slap of all the other self-growth decisions I’ve taken this year. It may be the dumbest thing I will be remembered for in my college, I may be made fun of¬† (hell I’m probably already being made fun of), the other person may think of me as a lovesick loser, but I still want to do it. If I succeed it would mean I won over my Shadow. That I overcame my doubts, widened my comfort zone, and took a step closer to integrating my thoughts with my reality. It’s about me growing and finally making friends with someone I’ve fancied for the longest time.

I keep telling myself that I’ll find someone else like you. But I’m lying to myself, I know it. God only made one of you and he sure took his time. It’s funny how you are a reminder of all my fears and all my doubts combined. I would call you my worse nightmare if I werent in love with you. Its amazing how life plays out, how ridiculously drawn I am towards you. There have been a dozen guys who came and went but in my mind there is only room for you. Part of me wants to run to you and confess with my whole chest so that everyone knows, part of me wants to run away and hide whenever I see you. Please God give me courage.