It’s 2 am. Moonlight slid in through the crack between the curtains. It was the only source of light in my room other than the table lamp. I love to sit there when I ought to think of something, anything. Like other usual nights, I was thinking about fixing up things. I had a lot of broken things in my life.

Broken friendships, broken relationship, broken heart. Above all those, the most precious thing which was broken was me. Yeah, I do call myself precious. That is because I know what I am of worth. Now the question is if I know my worth then why broken?

Well, the simple question comes with a more straightforward answer. Past. The word sounds familiar, doesn’t it? The word, the phase which hasn’t played much of a useful role in anyone’s life let alone mine. The word past brings hundreds of bad memories.

It brings back the grief, the heartbreaks, everything. People usually mistrust their future because they are so afraid of the past that unknowingly they cling to it. I’m one of them. The one who has been sticking to her past since years.

Fearing every action I take, just because I fear that history doesn’t repeat itself. That’s what makes me afraid and that’s why I can’t get rid of the past.

You might know what you are worthy of, but your past tortures and haunts you so much that you are left in that dark corner of yourself. (Also Read: Was It All Just A Dream? Part 2: And, I Met Antara Again!)

Every night I sit with a pen and paper to plan out what to do next, how to get things done, how to bring my life to a particular kind of discipline. But how can one do that when there’s chaos in that messy brain. So all I do is think, think and think.

Hours pass. The sun rises, it’s 6 am. With the rising sun, my disappoint rises too because the night was added to one of my uncountable sleepless nights. I was disappointed because one more night went in vain where I couldn’t think of an escape, a solution.

But with that small seed of hope dug deep into my heart, I pick myself up.

I get up to face one more day with pride and to be prepared for a night that follows it. It might be night again when I’ll be sitting at the reasonable place, with the same pen, same paper, same thoughts. I would be plotting and scheming to escape my negativity.

And I won’t give up on myself no matter how many nights it takes for me to figure out what I ought to do. And I will do it because I know and I believe in one thing. No one will do it for me. The only person who can save me is me.

Short Sails, By Soumya Sonthaliya

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