The hours long of scribbling; the restlessness; the ambiguity; the cloudiness of mind. My consciousness is fogging. Such a starry night yet nothing is clear. Mind is a weird machine. And so is the heart. Part of the same body, yet we consider them different. We say think from heart not mind or vice versa, when we are the being. And it is the whole of us who takes decisions. Not just the heart or the mind. Every atom, every molecule, every bone, every finger, every tendon…every part of our being has a part in the choices we make, in the decisions we take, in the emotions we feel. And what we do, blame just the heart or the mind.

I think I am in pain, because I am thinking strangely. I have heard that people do strange things when they are in pain. It’s not like that with me. I am thinking about heart and mind and fingers and bones. It’s 4 a.m. And I am thinking about body organs. I have to get up at 7.am. for the exam. And here I am sitting on my bed, a pad in my hand, scribbling non-stop God knows what. I am scribbling recklessly not caring what those fingers print on a piece of paper. The ink dropping so magically, creating patters.

The house is quiet. Everyone’s asleep. I should be sleeping too. But I am just sitting…doing nothing. I hope its pain. Because if it’s not I’ll have to consult some psychologist. I think I may have insomnia. Scribbling is just past time. The scriptures, from the deep recesses of my mind, are taking shape on a mere piece of paper through a flick of hand, a touch of ink. These patterns hold meaning, of which neither I nor anyone else know about. Such is the weirdness of scribbles, the words, and the shapes which emerge from our minds when we are least thinking about making them. The unintentional act of decorating the paper with the mind matter is so intriguing. Yet the whole act speaks for its simplicity and the depth of meaning it holds.

My hand moves automatically, forming shapes and words on the paper while my mind is somewhere else. Somewhere far away from this room and what it contains. I wish I could be like this always; away from the reality; away from the people; away from all the hustle-bustle of life. Just away.

I am sick. Not physically sick. Just sick of people. People frighten me. Their nature frightens me. Everyone may have their own story for being the way they are, but this doesn’t make them less despicable. This doesn’t give them the right to judge others. This doesn’t give them the right to be superior when we all are equal. I was never like this before. I loved being optimistic. Now, it all seems useless.

Optimism. I wish I could be like that again. Alas. That doesn’t seem possible. Now, it’s all the pessimism. I guess I see the world now for what it is. The eyes seem judgmental. Smiles seem conspiring. That’s what people are like. Deceiving everyone. Selfishness at its height.

I was never insecure. Now people scare me. I take every breath thinking what people think of me. Getting curious every time my name is mentioned anywhere. Eavesdropping conversations just to know what others think. People talk. They always talk. They always judge. They always point. Make one mistake, and you are condemned for the life time. No one cares how much good you have done, how many times you have helped them. Maybe it’s the nature. Maybe it’s not people’s fault. It runs in the blood. These merciless traits. These things which break the body into millions of pieces without even cracking the bones. Such is the power and strength of the people and their words.

Sometimes, I don’t want to exist. I want to change into something else; something new and fresh. I want to get rid of the skin I am in. I want to peel it off. As if there is something anew beneath it. I loathe myself. I feel repulsed by what I’ve become; what they’ve turned me into. I want to scrub it off until I bleed. I want to be cleansed off all the dirt.

Through my eyes, life is in black and white. I don’t know when the colors seeped away but now I’m just different shades of grey.

It’s all people. They hate it when I see color. They hate it when I make an effort to smile. They hate it when I wear pink and talk blue and love red. They have turned me into a self-loathing person. A person without hope. People like me in grey. They want me in it. I am shrinking; shrinking under their condescending gaze. I shrink till I’m so far away from what I started out to be. I don’t even recognize myself now and it’s scary. I’m scared. So I wear grey all over me. It’s like a film in front of my eyes that blocks out all luminosity. I was so many colors. But now, I’m just grey.

I take a look at the paper on my lap. It’s so filled with scribbles that there is no longer space for further scribbles. So I turn the page and start anew. I wish life could be like that. I could make it all start again. I could be happy again. But there is no hope. Or maybe there is.

I am confused. I am not sure of myself. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I think I’m destroying it. I don’t want that. But it’s happening, somehow. And I am helpless; helpless in the quest of stopping whatever’s happening. I want to be sure of my life. Yet I’m not. I don’t know how I came to be at this stage. But I am. And I am helpless and I am scared. Scared that I might not be able to get back to normal again, ever.

I guess it’s never going to stop. People are always going to have expectations. They are always going to expect you to be like something. And the failure is scary. It’s scarier when there is a baggage of expectations on your shoulders. You’ll always have to make one or the other happy. And yet no one’s pleased. No matter how much you try, there is someone with complains. There’s always something or someone digging you deeper and deeper into the whole of self-loathing that you’ve dug there. That’s the terrible reality of life. And there comes a time when you are so deep down in that whole that there exists no reason for your existence. That is when the breaking point comes. I fear I might be nearing that. I hope not. I really hope not.

I think it all ends from ‘Acceptance’. Acceptance of all the wretched thing and people..It ends from detachment; detachment from whatever people say or think or do. Detaching every fragment of your being from the past. It’s a hurtful process; ignoring people’s taunts and not worrying about what they used to think or will think. But at one point or the other, you’ll have to accept that happiness doesn’t come knocking the door. You have to pursue it. And until you do that, you’ll just be clueless. You will live, but you won’t. You might smile, but you don’t. You will wear a façade till the day you get back to your feet and see the sunshine. You’ll have to accept that that is the way people are and that is the way world works. You’ll have to find yourself in this group of deceiving and greedy people. You’ll have to be you and be happy with that and not let others affect you in any way. You’ll have to accept your failures and be proud of them because they refined you. They taught you. You’ll have to stop caring about the world thinks because the world will never stop thinking. It will never stop talking. So you’ll have to take a step, be a sensible one and start living.

I don’t know when I’ll be ready to accept. But I know one thing, that I’m sick of people’s taunts, of their criticizing gazes. I’m sick of hiding because people talk and expect. I’m sick of being guilty of my failures and not feeling the worth of my successes. I’m sick of killing myself over justifications I’m required to give to people who never knew me, who were never there when I was falling apart, and who were never there when I was getting myself back together. And then they appear out of the blue, judging you. How adorable. I am sick of wallowing in guilt because there are people talking at every door. I’m exhausted. And I want to end it.

I think I’m done dealing with people, giving them answers.

I’m a lot of colors. I’m not just grey.

I am not perfect but I try my hard to do what I can do to make everything right; to do everything right; to make everyone happy. And that is the best I am capable of. I will accept the reality of people. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or the week to follow. But someday.