By Mahima Bakshi
Who isn’t sad, after all?
Behind their polished faces
There’s a pinch of sadness
They hide—
From everyone.
From everything.
They hide it from
People they call home,
Friends,
Lovers,
Even themselves.
Who isn’t sad, after all?
Self-books over self-books,
Quotes over quotes,
Routines over routines,
Therapies over therapies—
And still,
That pinch of sadness remains.
They hide it well,
From everyone,
From everything.
But one day—
One night—
A memory creeps in
And opens that door.
The door to nothingness.
Empty thoughts.
Familiar faces.
Familiar scenarios.
What if I had done that, instead of this?
What if I wasn’t really who I thought I was?