Depression (excerpt from a conversation with a shrink)

"How long you've been taking
paracetamol as anti depressants?"
"Well it's been a long time."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Okay."
".."
"Are you sure?"
.
I don't like my blood
It's way too red,
And smells like filth
But cold as snow.
I've been listening to the same song
For past 10 hours,
Neither my pain stops
Nor the tears,
And the song as well.
.
This line from the song
"That's no way to live,
All tangled up
Like balls of string."
Makes every breath I take
Like a day job
I hate going to.
.
Shower burn all over my body
But the water isn't hot,
And my mom shouts at me
"Why did you open the geyser in summer?"
"To feel something."
"Your skin is burnt"
"My heart as well."
.
You can't relate it
My sadness and your friends,
You don't like sad people do you?
No one likes them.
"I can't breathe."
*Starts crying*
.
This isn't a prompt
But my survivability comes in word counts,
And My time is ticking
Please stop it.
.
I've attached too my copies of mental health issues
With my qualifications,
But no one likes it,
They say it's not important for you to live
As long as you are dying it's fine.
.
There aren't many places I can go,
I'm already tied to my death bed.
My last messages won't be long ones
They'll just be some cartoons about lost dreams,
And my incapability to chase them.
.
"You can't survive this way, dewang."
"How can I survive then?"
"Our way. By doing what we tell you."
"But I don't want to do it."
".."
"Don't take me! No!"
".."
"Please! Let me stay!"
"Please."
.
.
You aren't alone
You are lonely.
You aren't weak
You are broken.
You aren't dead
You are breathing.
.
":)"
"What do you want to say?"
"Nothing"
"..."
"Will you come back tomorrow?"
"You don't talk. I don't think, I can."
"Okay."
"Okay."
.
*Starts crying*

Isn't Death pretty? - A short Story

In the cold November rain, a squirrel sought shelter amongst our evergreen palm trees. In the hands of nature, it was safe. From the rain, from the cold. From everything that would steal it's soul. 

I remember breaking down into tears and trying to find sanity in the wide, blue sky. I could see the bowers of the trees and all I wanted to do was find my safe place, somewhere amongst the green. Maybe, I could send down roots and bind myself to the soil. But I am a vagrant. I am a dreamer. And I tend to run towards my dreams, even if I am hopeless. So, I pulled back my roots, tore myself from my safe places and ran. And ran. And just kept on running. 

All this while, the squirrel jumped to and fro, it's little body swaying with the wind and turning to it's little joys. The kind that's hardly found in our monotonous life. 

As life happened, I grew. And I grew with a restless spirit. The kind that lingered for some time and then spirited away. I was running even then but this time, I was running from myself. 

One bright day, with the wind blowing hope towards the wrong directions, the squirrel stopped chattering. It was too quiet and yet, the wind howled a dead man's song. 

I looked into the well. the old one, with moss on it's worn bricks and creepers sending out their sprouts in and around. I wanted to fall like the leaves but autumn was long over. Spring was due. I couldn't fall then. I couldn't fall at all. 

There lay the squirrel. In it's watery grave. I wondered if it looked at the trees as it fell. I wondered if a lone leaf fell with it. It must have been a beautiful fall. It must have been a bitter sweet end. The trees must have held out their arms calling their sweet child back. 

But dead things are often pretty. So is Death!