Summer blues are more appropriate & acceptable, than mental illness…

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Wrong era, but at least there’s internet for binge watching…

So I’m binge watching this show and…what do you mean what show? You clearly know the show I’m obsessed about lately…oh what the hell, it’s The Marvelous Mrs Maisel.

Okay! So it’s a musical scene with Jazz and I ask myself. What the bloody hell am I doing outside the screen? I mean I belong in there. Not among actors. No. I meant in that era.

Then I realized it’s 3 am and in probably just tired & overthinking. About everything. Life, people, things, errors, hopes, dreams blah blah blah.

That’s when I hear the wisdom of voices tell me what’s wrong. I needed midnight snacks. I open the fridge, mix whatever I coukd find, heat it and I’m back with a plate in my hand and the world of Midge Maisel in front of me.

But, I still feel I’m at the wrong side of the screen.

Damn you Jazz.

It’s not this show, it must then blame Ryan Gosling & his Jazz loving Sebastian role. Never gave a second thought to Jazz before.

Okay! Break is over. Time to hit Play button. Don’t you love Friday nights? Such a party it is.

Who am I?

Sometimes I miss the person I was when I first fell in love, the person I was when I fell in river of sadness that took me to the sea of blues, the person I was when I became adaptive to the darkness like one of those rare flying fish, the person I was who had a dream or two or three, the person who lived in happy fantasies where everything was just the way it should be sunny and peachy, the person I am not anymore.

I am still a warrior but I’m not a fish anymore just a seashell collector who is blue in color, lives around ruins from the sea of past and often smiles when comes across rusty pieces of what life was once upon a time.

Who am I?

A girl, a fish, a sea shell collector or a ghost that breathes like humans do?
Though I quite often feel like painting fallen in a pool of water who’s fresh paints are no longer on it, but still spilled all around.

Who am I?

Am I a painting?

Something old, something blue.

I miss what I was because once, at least I knew what I was. Now I’m like invalid and a lost space junk that is there but can’t remember why and how it got there.

Who am I?

Am I space junk?

Strange but even as I type I can hear a faint heartbeat, which means I’m alive and probably human like.

Who am I?

Am I a person, a living human specie? If yes then why do I feel unalive?

You want me to believe in God and I will one-day, but what am I to do after finding God when I’m yet to find myself.

I will not ask your God, who am I? Because I don’t want someone else to tell me. I want to find out but it’s too damn dark and though I can see like an owl, all clear and yet still dark, I wonder what road am I on and why?

Who am I?

Am I an owl?

Because if that’s true well at least that answers the beating heart. And why I’m up at 4 in the morning.

Shall I close my eyes now and wait for the planet to rotate and find the sun, so I could ponder on the question with a cup of coffee and some breakfast.

Though this sounds crazy because it could mean I’m a writer. A sad, night owl with bag full of words and an addiction to coffee and food.

Who am I, really?