By Abhilasha Kumari
I am tired of writing in notebooks. I want to scribble on walls. I want to spill tea on marble floors. I want to laugh. Laugh watching balloons and everything that does not make sense to my adulthood. I will call them et cetra. I want to scream that I am afraid of life.
Sob, sigh, gasp they belong to et cetra. My madness, my dare to be different, my fears, my naked thoughts, my passion, my insane imagination. They are et cetra. All the emotions that doesn’t have a word in my mother tongue is "et cetra". They often get vanished among what is said and the rest becomes "et cetra".
I want to keep an hourglass beside me with the sand slipping to the other end. I want to spend time counting moment by moment, watching sunset, sky, clouds, feeling breeze inside my hair, clicking photographs in golden hour, listen to birds, chase falling leaves, leisure , nap, throw pebbles in pond, count eyelashes . Et cetra of productivity.
We are ready to lose our self for others but we are not ready to dive in our own ocean of thoughts, travel back to the roots of triggers and take our self respect back from others to our own hand. The dependency of our own happiness, the key to our miseries everything belong to others. We never thought of thinking about the screams buried in cemetery of our heart. We blame the world for our own sorrow, pain , tears but never took the responsibility to own them. My sorrow belongs to me. In this vast universe only I can make her happy.
By Abhilasha Kumari
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