Wet-eyed Contemplations

It feels like I am a Wednesday - present in the middle of every week, existing, breathing, contributing equal minutes to sapiens as Mondays and Saturdays do, but am never talked about.

I am that odd kid in the classroom who's always quiet and whose absence weighs just equal to the weight of an 'A' written in front of her name in the attendance register. I know nothing of young bloods claiming to be Saturday nights, which is to say that I don't know about people who feel themselves as Mondays either.

But then I do know of throat lumps and how many gulps, on an average, it takes to shoot their heads off to not let tears win the war. 

I shoot my throat lumps in afternoons when everyone's around me. Nights are covered all alone in my room, so I let them live and let tears fall like confetti on my pillow. Sometimes this leads to insomnia, which is to say that sometimes my wet eyes get tired of staying shut while I'm not able to sleep, so I open them instead and stare at the walls of my room, which is to say - I think a lot at night.

Sometimes I wonder whether insomnia could ever be kind enough to wish for getting itself diagnosed. But then insomnia is (as I am) a Wednesday too.

Here, but still not.

Perhaps insomnia is a novice that's trying to stay and evolve into cancer, which is to say that everydamnthing in this world has someone to get inspired from, which is to say that everydamnthing includes me as well and this whole wet-eyed contemplation has bucked me enough to make people born on Wednesdays as my inspiration.