Is it okay, if I whiled away a couple hours,
lazing on a bean bag, watching an ant run by and disappear under the bed?
Is it okay, if I spent my evenings,
Flitting from one thought to another, patternless, in a quiet dark room?
Is it okay, if I stared at the ceiling in the deep of the night,
Not knowing what the time is, yet listening to the clock’s ticking and time’s slipping?
Is it okay, if I spent my mornings,
Trying to avoid waking up to this life? Trying to be thankful for privilege, trying to figure out what causes the soot in my heart to accumulate but failing – miserably – every single time?
Is it okay, if I spent my days,
repeating the routine – bland, monotonous – like a machine, hearing laughter and feeling nothing?
Is it okay, if I came back home,
and wanted silence?
Is it okay, to not want to give love to the ones that love me? Is it okay to be blind of my worth and believe every discouraging word I have heard?
Is it okay, if I thought I’m ill and I shall never find the cure to the disease even if I tried?
Is it okay if I couldn’t cry? Is it okay if I sat still and wasted away my life, hungry tides of ambition running dry?
Is it okay to not understand what’s okay? Is it okay to not know what’s right?