There’s a concrete parking lot, cracked and with weed forming on the sides.
There’s a first floor classroom, crowded, cold and unfamiliar;
the people in it untrustworthy, suspicious, and dangerous. Sounds of machine carpentry on a summer day, mechanical, penetrating, uncomfortable. The smell of roadkill, toxicity, and cancer. A feeling of repetition, limbo, unwanted loneliness and fear.
Ninety degrees Fahrenheit nights, and waking up with anxiety.
Herd of delusional people. People who talk but say nothing meaningful, who live a routine lifestyle, and laugh without luster in their eyes. People who have it all together; acceptable personality, perfect family, work like a mule, and party when appropriate. People who expect the same from everyone. People and their generic, packaged, and automated versions of happiness. Feeling of distrust, loneliness, and coldness,
and there’s no reason to openly explain why.
Samasya Tapasya 