White Prison

She had never woken up at this hour before. Maybe she did, but that time of her life has long passed and she can’t remember it.

They gave her pills every night so she wouldn’t wake up at this hour, so she wouldn’t ever be alone with no one to watch over her every move. This time she didn’t swallow the pills like she used to every night. She put the glass of water to her lips, but didn’t gulp the tasteless, bland liquid down. She had been here for so long she doubted they even thought that she could try something like that. They don’t know a thing about her. How can they say they’re healing her when they don’t know what’s wrong with her in the first place?

The room is so white. She always hated this color. White is peaceful. White is quiet. White is everything she isn’t. The world outside is black. That’s where she should be. That’s where she blends in. There are locks and cameras everywhere. She can never get out, unless she heals. Maybe she is and she doesn’t know what it feels like. Surely she is better now that they keep her alive on wires and little pills in orange bottles.

There is a fruit bowl on the bedside table. It’s doing a painfully bad job to hide the huge stack of reports and wires. Ironically, the fruits here taste disgusting.

This feels like old times, when she was reckless and crazy. She rebelled without a cause, without a reason. Well, that’s what they all thought. There were reasons; she would tell if they asked. If they asked. She stayed out late just so that they would worry about her. She shut her door all the time because she wanted them to open it and ask her what’s wrong. She cried all day so that they would wipe her tears. “We’re doing this because we love you,” they had said when they left her here. Love can’t be that oblivious.

Sitting up, she picked up the glass of water next to her, emptied it on her bed and smashed it on the floor. A lady came in, and shook her head on seeing the mess.

“Bad dreams, sorry.”

The lady scooped her up and dumped her on the sofa as she stripped off the sheets from the bed and ran out to get new ones. She returned with a dustpan. She fixed the bed and cleaned up the glass from the floor. Soon, the room was like it was before, and she left.

She should’ve noticed. She should’ve done her job. She should’ve turned around and seen how the little girl’s hands were still clutched around a particularly sharp piece of glass.

Closed Door

She saw it again,
her fear haunting her.
How the art of deceit,
its immortal form,
was merging in her life.
Her thoughts, rather a web,
a web of vulnerability.
A web of the past,
clinging to what seemed lost.
Was it only her thoughts?
Or was history repeating itself?
She finally gave in,
gave in to find the truth.
Hope being her drug.

- by Vibhuti Kathpalia
( The best friend I could have ever asked for. )

Stars

Some say people become stars when they die
That explains why they only come out at night
When everyone has cried themselves to sleep
And they wake up to the sound of rain
On their windowpane
Their crying reciprocated.

Outlet

Sometimes,
I wish I could sing
So that I could bleed my
Deepest thoughts
Through a microphone
But I won’t complain
For I have a crumpled envelope
and a piece of chalk
and that will have to do.

3:19 AM

It’s 3:19 AM and the world feels absolutely beautiful. Everything is so calm. It’s silent, yet the silence is screaming. It’s not an irritating scream, but like a blanket falling on you, ever so gently. It feels really peaceful to be up at this hour. Many people call this the ‘inhuman’ hour, yet it makes me feel the most human I’ve felt in a long while.
I wish I could reverse my living cycle. I’d love to stay awake the entire night, watch the sunrise, bask in the sunlight for a while and then sleep, only to wake up in the late evening. How surreal and blissful will that be?
There are faint noises of traffic in the background. These people with night- duty jobs are extremely fortunate. I’d love to drive a goods truck every night and just think, just like I am doing now.
The two clocks in my room tick loudly, almost simultaneously. During the day, the minuscule gap in their ticking would drive me insane, but not today. Right now the ticking seems to me almost musical, as if beckoning me to dance to it.
I’m sitting on the floor. I’ve always loved to do that. It’s calming, almost therapeutic. My pencil is gliding gracefully across my old, battered notebook. It’s almost as if my eyes are mere spectators, in this exchange of thoughts between the heart and the brain.
My room is untidy, but I feel so, in control. Everything is better at this hour. Water seems colder, quenches thirst like it’s never done before. The food tastes better. It’s almost as if it’s not reaching my stomach at all, and just messaging my throat lovingly.
The internet seems faster. The books seem better, when it’s so quiet you can hear each page turn. Even meaningless music reaches the delicate heartstrings. The eyes see better, they see more.
I almost feel as if I am dreaming. I never want to wake up. But I never even slept.