A friend calls me, “Are you okay?” they ask. The world stops for a second. What do I tell them? How do I tell them that I don’t know, but I desperately want to? Do I tell them I don’t understand what “being okay” is anymore? How do I put the feeling into words? Relative […]
A friend calls me, “Are you okay?” they ask.
The world stops for a second. What do I tell them? How do I tell them that I don’t know, but I desperately want to?
Do I tell them I don’t understand what “being okay” is anymore? How do I put the feeling into words? Relative definitions that clarified such boundaries have now fused into a mere blur in my head.
I eat, function, sleep, and repeat. For all it’s worth, I manage to exist. Does that mean I’m okay? Or does it not?
Life does “flow” all the time, only this time the viscosity has changed.
I’ve been feeling so numb that neither the past nor the future makes me excited or anxious anymore. I continue to exist solely because I find comfort in patterns I know, even if I don’t fit there.
I miss fear, but I’ve never been less afraid. Does it tell you that I’m okay? Or does it imply that I’m not?
The circadian rhythm doesn’t stop rhyming; the fortunate make poetry out of it. Around me, a multitude of people go on and on with their lives. Some of them smile at me; some others make me smile. All of them aren’t happy, but most of them act like they are. Are most of them okay? I don’t know.
I haven’t been thinking about sunrises as much as I ruminate about sunsets nowadays. Sunsets remind me of rest; I’ve been tired. Activities I was once passionate about, I call routine today. Some people tell me that is “okay” and expected in the flow of things, you might probably tell me it’s not. So, what should I tell my concerned friend on the call?
“I’m okay”, I reply.
Writer: Annie Iniya J
