Exactly five years ago in the harsh winters of my hometown, a fourteen-year-old Sarthak faced heartbreak for the very first time. It was a heavy feeling, as if I was freefalling down a bottomless pit. The only way out that I could think of was crying a river. So I cried and cried and cried. Presently I am not someone who finds crying a solution to his problems. It’s not something to be proud of. Abstinence from tears isn’t a healthy coping mechanism. So I got inside the heavy razai of year-end and cried until you could see remnants of a fleeting stream on my cheeks. I was not aware of my true feelings but they were so obvious and obnoxious that they hurt me like a toxin that was my own. A toxin that I thought was too abnormal to be accepted for what it was, love. A forbidden love. I remember being all dressed up to have a nice time on Christmas 2016 only to get stood up and have nothing to explain to my mother. This is exactly why I am always skeptical of older friends. They hurt you and don’t even realize that they did. The December of 2016 still haunts me to this day. I get goosebumps thinking about how much I went through as a mere kid. All my self-respect crumbled and tore into pieces it took me all my teenage to gather.
It was more of a cycle. I let the same set of people hurt me to the core of my existence all over again.
Since then, year-ends have been strange for me. They have always been chaotic where my disorientation competed with the burning cold. December 2017 had me preparing for my 10th boards. December 2018 had me trying to figure my head out. December 2019 had me all hollow and full of cinematic rock bottom. December 2020 had me posting this snap.
December 2021 has me trying to compress my feelings into this 400-word blog.
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