I’m Different-What It Takes to be Yourself

Little rainbows inside our minds—it’s that one thing that no one ever shares or what is this chaotic landscape. Born with nothing but a pair of worn out boots, ones that cried when you cried and smiled when you wanted to smile. These days are a beautiful misery and these humans know nothing about it. All they do is act like platinum when the forests are forever getting lost.

I was once a soft leaf, bedridden with meaningful flowers—those that never judged or jolted on me. It was as if heaven had come down to earth, if only there exists one and my mind—it was in symphony. To realize that you are the non-matching silk in entire collection of cotton—it is an uninteresting thing because everyone will say that that you do not belong here.

And so did I—with all the pulsation inside my chest, those currents that swept papa away when I was just eleven. How much on earth do I miss his face. Growing up with the underlying boots such securely tied to its curator—there was nowhere I could go or what is every second even about.

Those rushing leaves and the tender words such charismatic—but I was never part of it or what was I. People began to see me differently, as if I was not a descendent of the first humans on earth. As the windows applauded their conviction—I sat at the edge of the dimly lit forest. There was no one around to bother so I slept like a butterfly that entire day.

But as I woke up wet, with nothing but three words written on my face—ones that told me never to return to civilization. And I wasn’t even disheartened or what is—such an emotion taking over each second. I saw my reflection for one last time, emptying the tiredness of the blue society—leapt and forever disappeared.

Now that I realize, home was never meant for me. People call you names and it does not even bother them. The streets in disbelief, curated out of the heart—molested before midnight and no one to whisper these stains of red. It’s like a foggy song written on the night one tried to kill himself. Perhaps he never wanted to—and all that he desired for, grains of happiness that everyone threw away such unconditionally.

Dancing wolves and godly scent, these were the last few words on his soil. No one wants you and me—all they care about is paper and plastic. Creativity is a lousy act—they think and grief is as pointless as the sun—they think.

Nobody left to hold me for one last time. Skin under the fashionable cloud, atheistic curtains and withdrawn bed sheets. It’s what left of life or a lie. So let me paint, and if there is a beautiful flaw on it—just let breathe, ye shall not stab us with blue daggers just for a spill.

I knew I couldn’t breathe, but I held onto my only tree who never left—such different after all. When no one is around and the only thing that is—things which are never around, plastered to our lives such passionately. So sing with me—I’m different.

-Yogesh Chandra