human digestion
in the mornings i wake up wistful, missing something i don’t have. i don’t know how i know this. maybe it’s because this thought prances around in my head each time i open eyes to the subdued sunlight filtering through the grids of my bedside window. i don’t want curtains and waking up is difficult. somewhere between the slow but excruciating days of quarantine and the period after that, the week between Christmas and 31st that shouldn’t exist, i realised i’m always going to be sick. homesick, school-sick, sick of, sick with. and in these times, i remind myself of the vistas i left behind at home. it’s weird to call a city my home, especially when you live where i live. my white friends clicked a picture of the dark, smoky sky at the Delhi airport, shocked at the sight of a night sky so bright with pollution. but they’re travellers. i’m a product of this place. i will come up with all i can to justify my love for this suicidal city. ...