Happyness Peddler

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square; surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom its invisible, agony reaches a certain unendurable level, and will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from the burning windows, their terror of falling from the great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames; when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall, it’s the terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, c...

I've always been too dumb, too loud and too crazy for him. And by him, I mean my friends. And by friends, I mean the people I hang out with sometimes and regret every moment of it. And by regret, I mean killing myself twice inside my head for saying 'yes' for the meeting. And by saying 'yes', I mean an over excited, pumped up agreement every time they ask me to meet. You ask why? Because I tend to over compensate for everything I do with everyone around me. I've this feeling of not belonging to this place since forever. I feel a massive rock on my chest while I simply exist. I feel that everyone around me is doing me a favour of letting me exist and I owe them everything I have. But I fail everyday. I fail to please everyone around me. I fail to do things they want me to do. I fail to be there every time they need help. I fail to be the one they want me to be. It's like paying a price for something I didn't even ask for. But it's not that I want to...

Monuments are a huge contributing proof that our country had a history and that we’re proud of it. But is it the case with human beings too? Do we protect and savour our past and be proud of it? Most of us do and each one of us expects that from everyone. Is it that important to own it all and have them as victory stories? What if I’m not comfortable in that? What if I’m still dealing with it? What if it is still there as my invisible black cloud? We’ve forgotten the meaning of space or time or life for that matter. Stop bothering me with your ‘funny’ taunts that point to my past. Or ask what’s ‘the fuss’ is all about. Do my words have any consideration now? Do you even listen to me? I’m tired of telling you same words again and again and you don’t seem to understand a bit of it. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to remember any of it. I don’t want to speak about it. I don’t want you to judge me for that. I want my history to be forgotten...