It's a cold February night and I could still hear the clock ticking. My thoughts weren't letting me sleep. A morning class awaits me by eight, where I need to show my face bright and fresh, no matter what happened last night, it's not in their syllabus for half-yearly or final. No one should know behind this I am fine of mine when asked how is my day. No one likes listening without their Instagram making them #listeners, #mental health is real, torchbearers.
In the middle of the day, I hear a teacher asking someone to read out loud like in classes, I wonder if the strongest mic can make her voice reach the teacher's home. Why can't we stop pretending that it's the same, and acknowledge one to be different? Why can't imperfection be its own perfection? I don't need people to tell me to hide my depression just because people think it's 'pagalo ki beemari', to tell others to take some baba's herb or mantra to cure it, to hide the panic attack with a smile, and keep reading their textbook, loud in the class, who doesn't even teach us how to smile and live in reality. — % &
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