08.11.25

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After scrolling the damned phone, I stared at the roof. The fan needed to be cleaned up. It was again the same day, same night, I was again in the same black and white dress. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the blood stains. When I tried to clean the mirror, the stains were on my dress. The stains started to take human form and come out of my dress. I could not see the face, but it gave me its hand. Holding the hand took me to the river and snow, under the shivering sun. My cold and dry hands. I wanted to understand why, despite holding hands, they are so cold. I think death is always cold, even in scorching heat; it feels cold. 

My hair frozen, my lips parched, I blurted a name, but my voice deceived me; there was no sound, only a white sheet in front of my eyes. The hand started to grip my shoulders, weighing them down. If Blue is the colour of sadness, then why aren't the blue skies? 

The words, the words, again the same words. When will they stop echoing in my ears? “No! I can't! Not anymore,” I ran behind those words and ended up in front of a mirror, with the clean dress, with the stooped shoulders. 

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Nidhi katoch
A silent observer in search of her TRUE HOME. If you like my writings, do comment and share... Views are extremely personal and are original writings of mine.

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