By Atalant Nadkar
Haven't I always been quarantined?
In sultry, distressing classrooms,
In uncomfortable, cold cubicles,
In my mother's tiny kitchen,
In rooms full of faceless bodies,
Stuck in a queue, stuck in traffic.
In the webs that I have not weaved
In dreams that are not mine, 
In an image that is not me -
A pulp fiction protagonist
In an ever-ending loop of life. 
Haven't I always been quarantined?
In her heart-shaped labyrinth
Wandering hopeless, yet hopeful;
Lost, lonely, searching for a way out. 
In the prison of my mind
Contained by invisible, monotonous walls,
Jaded by needless bits and pieces.
My jagged edges have smoothed over time,
And like a semi-precious stone 
I have been encased in a silver mould
To be peddled and pawned at cornershops.
Haven't I always been quarantined?
Resigned to a fate that is not mine,
Isolated from the unrelenting voice within,
Whispering, bickering, edging me on,
To tear down the walls, and break the mould;
Leave behind the needless bits and pieces;
To free myself from the prison, the labyrinth
And walk far, far away from the cornershops.
- Atalant


  • A ray of sunshine in this dark phase.

  • Very apt!!


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