A Reflection

— Sambrita Chakraborty

Dawn breaks upon the city like a splattered egg. Light filters in through nooks and crannies. The bed grows heavy; my head grows heavier. Lead courses through my veins. Deep dives can turn into free falls due to the lack of proper equipment. I fill my back pocket with carabiners and sawdust. The clock tick-tocks down to the last minute, then resets itself and starts counting down again. A vast emptiness laps at my feet, wet and cold. There is not much left to say at the edge of the world.

I wash my face at the bathroom sink. The cabinet mirror is cracked in places. Sunken eyes and sunken hopes and a sunken smile stare back at me. Big corps tell us that every day is a new day. Every successful CEO sits in his five-million-dollar mansion and asks us to seize the day. The roadside magazine shop sells vernacular newspapers that no one reads. A street urchin runs across the street in tattered clothes.

I look into the cabinet for my pills. Small, yellow capsules dissolve on my tongue in a metallic hiss. My mouth fills with the bitter taste of chemical compounds and festering emotions. I wash down the taste with a glass of orange juice. My mother called me last night to check in on me. I ignored her call like I ignored the Chinese leftovers I had left sitting on the counter to be my dinner. The world does not stop, so how can I?

I sit outside my apartment building, on the footpath. Buses and bright-faced boys fly past me. I light up a smoke. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Let five seconds pass. Bring the smoke up to your lips. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Let five seconds pass. Bring the smoke up to your lips. Inhale. Let the nicotine line the walls of your lungs. Your throat burns. It itches. You want to reach in and scratch it out. But you keep your hands to yourself and pray for the lightness to overtake you soon.

The world is a broken bone. The world is side-eyed glances and muttered words. The world is apathy packaged as pity. The world stands like a prison warden tantalizing the beginning of a riot. The world is rusted glass and fractured steel. The world is a firework that dazzles so bright it blinds you. The world pushes you to wear a mask every day while it whispers sweet nothings in your ears. The world does not tolerate pain; suffering is only welcome when it is done behind closed doors. The world pushes the sad poets and tortured painters to the edge and then makes a martyr out of them. Profit off your pain, but don't let it bleed out. Profit off your pain, but don't be difficult to deal with. Package yourself into bite-sized pieces. Make your suffering palatable to others. Shrink yourself into your own palm, lest your thoughts bleed out of your head. Be a good performer; don’t let the audience down. Talk with a twinkle in your eyes, smile on an invisible cue, lend your shoulder to take on more of the weight of the world.

The world, after all, is a stage.