“Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack’d from side to side;

‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried

The Lady of Shalott.” – Alfred Tennyson

What is this feeling of longing and having at the same time. The knowledge that as soon as you close your fist it’ll be within your grasp, but the realisation that as soon as it is done ‘poof’; it’s gone. Vanished in thin air. What is this feeling of gut wrenching pain, that makes you want to kill yourself but no sooner is it gone you sense emptiness. The horrifying awareness dawns upon you that what you wanted to push away for so long had actually become a part of you, and what you are now is; incomplete.

What is this feeling of fearing fire but being possessed by the desire to burn. Like loving the feeling of peeling wax off your skin and fearing the stinging pain before it coats your hand. What are these voices that murder sleep and the songs that make noise seem melodious ? What is it with the breath that suffocates and the eyes that refuse to see?

“What is this feeling?” I shouted at the face that had been a witness of my act for quite some time now- from the beginning to be honest. It still stared down, doing nothing. Replying-nothing. Too long had it seen me in my vulnerable; no more. In the time span of a second my fist pressed against its nose. There was no scream. There was blood, hot blood trickling down my knuckles, through my arm and dripping down from my elbow, but cries? None. The only sound that came was of- cracking, the only pain felt- of rejecting myself. Again.

 

 

– Shreyas Joshi

( Shy )

 

Photograph by Alwina Kathuria.

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