By Megha Nayar
I have 102 degrees of cabin fever. It happens whenever I marinate in could-haves and should-haves for too long.
Do little things, says my therapist. Take a bath. Make your bed. Walk. Call a friend.
Easy for her to sing that song.
I’ve lain here for hours now. I last drank water in the morning. My armpits reek of yesterday’s sweat. My scalp has sprouted little balls of sebum that I scratch and weed out when I’m bored.
This can’t go on.
Out I jump, as suddenly as I’d slumped.
I step away from the brink, into the shower.
“I write because it is the only kind of validation I know.” – the writer