One.

Once again, I’ll be waking up in the morning and regretting everything I did the night before. Like pouring my heart out or maybe avoiding reality. Or perhaps, it will be something minor like skipping dinner and eating cheese at midnight. But I will do it. Inevitably. I am going to wake up, look for my phone, put on my headphones and play the stale track from two nights ago. Then I’ll rewind and replay last night’s tragedy, and forget the little happy moments squeezed in between solid everyday tragedies. I’ll drink up my medicine and wait till the warmth of the bed runs out. I’ll make a weird hair bun and stare at my weirdly round face in the mirror. I’ll spend the day being hungry after meals and making mental notes on impulses. To-do lists will be torn, crumpled and thrown, guilt will be followed by a hot cup of tea and college texts. At 4 in the evening, when the sunlight filters into a golden hue, I’ll flip a coin and decide to either go sleep while the maid plays a symphony of unwashed dishes, or I’ll pick up a soddy playlist and go to the terrace. A couple of average pictures with above-average filters will be clicked and instagram-ed, the November cold will tighten hoodies and socks will have to be pulled up. Stairs will be descended and fairylights switched on. Among those prosthetic stars in golden, silver, pink, and purple, an old lover will be missed and anxious heartbeats will creep in. Pretentious smiles will be passed on to the concerned family and excuses made to avoid conversations. Each day, it will get worse or it will get better, it’ll be an ECG graph on life’s map. By the time this head space is cleared, a cup of lemon tea will be passed around and the day would near a montonous end. More medicines and monotonous thoughts will follow, impulsive texts would be sent, some tasks crossed off the list, all on adrenaline. By the time a horrible tasting mug of lukewarm milk with a tinge of tumeric will make its way up my lips, the please-make-me-cry playlist will be blaring in my ears. More regrettable activity or inactivity will haunt the mind till sleep drags its way to my insomniac body and mind. And then, once again, I’ll wake up and clip back my hair. Maybe it’ll be a good day and I’ll wash my hair. I might blow dry and sit in the sun. I hope it’s a good day tomorrow, because today I cried after losing another battle.

•••

This is how every single day, around this time, turns out to be. I have semester end examinations coming up and a pretty boring preparatory leave. The thing about being such a moody, bipolar, depressed, perennially pessimistic person is that you spend more time thinking of negative adjectives than actually trying to get up and feel the sunshine. I had a good thanksgiving, with a major chicken craving fulfilled. I survived another day and I am going to remember that sunset and dwarved buildings from my friend’s terrace. I will also remember the comfort of a presence on the other side of a phone call, the comfort which I lost today. Today’s tragedy has me numbed and I had been bracing myself for days, months actually. It’s funny how you can never be prepared enough for pain or heart-wreck. It’ll still hit like a horrible nightmare, only worse, because it’s reality. 

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