The old ones spoke of mornings that smelled of wet leaves. They said the ground used to breathe after rain. That you could walk for days across soft green lands, without once touching the hard, grey plains. They spoke of towering forests of grass, of petals crowded with visitors, of dew hanging from every edge like tiny drinking bowls. I have never seen such things. Today, I sit on a wooden ledge, watching the endless rivers of roaring metal beasts rush past. The air tastes of dust. The wind carries grit instead of pollen. Even the flowers seem tired, growing from cracks where they can. Sometimes I wonder if the old ones exaggerated. If their stories grew larger with each telling. Then, after a rare rain, I catch the scent of damp earth, drifting up from somewhere hidden. For a moment, the world feels different. Softer. And, I think, perhaps the old ones were not telling stories after all. Perhaps they were remembering ho...
Now more than ever, it's essential to foster open conversations about mental health and breaking the stigma. A few lines I penned down: Darkness presses in from every side, I crawl through a narrowing tunnel, The walls inch closer, hour by hour, Each breath a battle, each moment a weight. I try to run, legs and arms thrash, But there’s nowhere to go, The urge to escape grips hard, Pulling at me, begging to flee— But all I can do is twitch, fidget, Small rebellions against a feeling that grows. Who’s coming now? Not another face telling stories of gods or ghosts, No more rituals or lectures on order, On how to scrub your life clean, make it neat. No more promises from gurus who know it all. Not another boss, with threats that loom. How did it begin? A flicker, a spark of doubt— Anxiety’s tiny pulse, swelling into something vast, It spun a world with me at its core, And soon, everything circled around, Until I could see nothing else. But now— A glimpse of light, faint but real. Som...