Friday, November 24, 2017


By Sunaina Patnaik at Friday, November 24, 2017

I tell my therapist how
peculiar and specific my
fears are,
he assures me they aren't
I tell him I wake up in the
middle of the night,
worrying about ageing,
that someday, I'll turn 50,
with regrets written between
the lines of my palm,
I tell him how the thought
of future keeps me awake
and how terrified I am of
opening my eyes every morning
because I don't want a good dream
to vanish,
he tells me, over and over again,
that I'm young and I have plenty
to look forward to,
I tell him, again and again,
that I live more in past
than the present,
I tell him, how my mind
shouts and yells and rants
inside but my heart can
never fully make sense
of the words,
he asks me to probe,
to take deep breaths,
to breathe in and out,
to let answers come from
so I sit, in the dark,
breathing in and out,
spelling out hope beside
my name,
and wondering if some night
when I'm 50, I wake up
and don't cry out of regrets.

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