She dances to the songs Of birds and trees. Not caring where her feet fall, Not caring who watches her, Not caring if she's being mocked. She dances in the shadows As the darkness holds her captive; The shadows are her spotlight. Her footsteps fall On scattered dust. When the little black birds Will fly back to their homes By broken window ledges and vents, The cool breeze will blow the dust Into nothingness, Where her rhythm will lie forgotten. The dying roots of the trees And the little cooing fledglings Won't remember her tomorrow. I don't know how she does it But when she dances, She dances like there's no tomorrow, Like she's frozen in her own Happily ever after. Photo by Anthony Shkraba from Pexels
This is it —there’s no going back now. Tenth grade starts tomorrow. The Board year. The year of insurmountable pressure. The year when uncles and aunties will ask you nothing but padhai kaisi chal rahi hai? / Boards ki taiyaari thik hai na? at a freaking birthday party and you’ll force out a smile, saying haan ji, sab thik hai. Then they’ll begin that same lifeless story about how their son scored some good numbers in his tenth boards, then cracked NTSE, then scored well in a dozen other competitive exams, then topped in twelfth boards, then cracked JEE and blah blah blah. God, this is a fucking party—let me BREATHE! And you’ll wish you hadn’t given in to your mum’s chal beta kitna padhegi and just stayed at home, reading the fuck out of your stupid textbooks. But none of it yet. Tenth grade starts tomorrow, after all. I have a couple of hours between today and tomorrow. Hopefully, I won’t dream of school tonight. Last night I had this extremely weird dream in which I was running t
My class, V-E, is a zoo, With no concrete cells, But with ringing bells, And everyone shouting "shoo". Sometimes it's like a living hell, And in unison thirty voices yell, They run and shout like monkeys minus tails, You can't "shoo" them cuz you'll fail. Other times it's just like paradise, Seems like you won the roll of dice, They'll speak so polite and act so nice, You'll forget you've come to a pack of mice. Now that's my class, Sometimes they're good as angels, Sometimes bad as ghosts, Come here, and if you're lucky, I'll be your host. Photo by Iqwan Alif from Pexels
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