Expanding The Horizons

Trial

July 23rd, 2025

I have always avoided books that make me feel heavy. Stories that linger after the last page is turned. Characters who breathe down your neck long after the book is closed. Truths that feel a little too familiar. I have skipped sad movies and walked away from brooding documentaries. I have leaned toward stories that leave me lighter. I prefer fictions that do not press too hard.

But then, I picked up The Trial by Kafka because my elder brother was reading it.

I do not know why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something I could not name. But it did not take long for the absurdity to seep in. Not just the absurdity of the plot. That, in itself, is classic Kafka. But the absurdity of how familiar it all felt. A man trapped in a system, accused without explanation, waiting endlessly for justice while the machinery of the institution grinds forward without a face. As a lawyer, I felt it in my bones.

There is a kind of quiet collapse Kafka writes about. It is not loud. It is not even dramatic. It is just a slow erasure of logic, of fairness, of dignity. And it mirrors what I sometimes witness in real life. Courtrooms echo with purpose, but often carry exhaustion. Files are heard, but not always read. Systems work, but not always for those who need them the most.

I did not plan to carry the book with me, but I did. I took it out for a walk.

It was drizzling. Just enough rain to blur your vision but not enough to stop you from walking. I walked about a kilometer with Kafka in one hand and today’s unread Indian Express folded and tucked inside the book as a bookmark. It was not a literary decision. Just habit. A pause in the absurdity. The paper sagged slightly from the rain, trying to stay relevant for one more hour.

I wanted to walk more. Maybe a couple more kilometers. Let the greyness soak in. Let the words settle, not just in thought but in my limbs. But the day had been long. Court had drained me. Conversations had pulled. So I turned around. My shoes were wet and my mind felt heavier than usual. I came home hoping the mangoes were ripe.

That is the thing about days like this. You carry Kafka in one hand and a newspaper in the other. You walk through the rain with questions that do not end. You feel the weight of institutions and inefficiencies and invisible systems. And yet you come home hoping that there is something soft and sweet waiting in the fridge.

I still do not know why I picked up The Trial. But I know why I will keep reading it.

Not because I want to feel sad.

But because I want to understand why I avoid feeling it.

And maybe that is what being human is.

To walk with difficult thoughts.

To come home tired.

To reach for a mango.

Later.
Unfiltered

July 12th, 2025

Let’s talk about wisdom. Not the kind etched into temple walls or whispered by monks on mountaintops. I’m talking about the real, gritty, painfully accurate wisdom that usually shows up after you’ve eaten too much chilli or replied “sure, let’s catch up” to someone who drains your soul.

This kind of wisdom doesn’t glow. It doesn’t trend. It isn’t curated by an influencer in Bali sipping green juice on a bean bag. It’s the annoying voice in your head — the one that says, “You know this is a bad idea, right?” And we, being human and tragically optimistic, go ahead and do it anyway.

Chapter One: That Inner Voice We Treat Like Spam

Every time you’re about to do something dumb, like buy a juicer to ‘start fresh’ even though you’ve never juiced anything in your life, there’s a voice. A small one. Kind of like the mental version of your mom clearing her throat behind you.

It says, “Are you sure?” And you say, “Let me live!”

That voice has been honed by generations of human stupidity. It’s survived wars, heartbreak, and Black Friday sales. But now, its job has been taken over by… algorithms.

Chapter Two: Algorithm Gurus and Their Unshakable Faith

Enter the modern breed of wisdom, the people who are 110% convinced that their algorithm knows them better than their mother, therapist, or bank account.

These are the folks who say things like “The Universe sent me this Reel and I just knew I had to break up with him.”

Or, “My feed is so aligned right now. It’s like, healing.”

They follow accounts that post pastel quotes like, “You are the sun, babe. Burn for no one,” and then proceed to ignore their credit card bill and text someone named Karan at 2:17 AM.

They believe the universe is speaking through TikTok. They get their nutritional advice from astrology memes and use phrases like “retrograde made me do it” while eating nothing but air-fried zucchini chips.

And here’s the kicker, they are so sure. So absolutely confident that their algorithm, their curated bubble of content and confirmation bias, is smarter than centuries of lived human experience. They think they’ve cracked life, love, parenting, finance, and digestion. Meanwhile, the rest of us are quietly Googling, “Can one die from excessive emotional intelligence?”

Chapter Three: The Chilli, the Mistake, the Lesson

Despite all this algorithmic enlightenment, some wisdom never changes. Like the lesson that too much chilli will eventually humble you, no matter how spiritual or gluten-free your diet is.

You can follow all the gut health influencers in the world. You can watch thirty-seven Reels about the benefits of cumin water. But if you eat that extra-spicy paneer tikka because your ego said, “You’re built different,” you will still find yourself holding onto the sink for dear life the next morning, whispering, “Why me, God?”

That, my friend, is when real wisdom shows up. And it’s not in the form of a life coach in Ibiza. It’s your colon saying, “I told you so.”

Chapter Four: The Comeback of Common Sense

After a certain age, usually somewhere between your first heartbreak and your third probiotic… you start hearing the truth again. Not from an algorithm. But from within. The wisdom that says, “Drink water,” “Don’t text him,” and “You don’t need another plant.”

You realize that wisdom isn’t supposed to be sexy or viral. It’s supposed to be useful. Quiet. Annoying. Inconvenient. And deeply, unfailingly true.

It reminds you that kids don’t need martyrs for parents, they need emotionally stable adults. That staying in a relationship out of guilt is like keeping spoiled milk in the fridge “just in case.” And that sometimes, self-care isn’t a face mask. It’s saying no, sleeping early, and unfollowing that one person who makes you feel like you’re failing at life.

Final Thoughts: It’s Okay to Be Dumb (Just Don’t Make It a Habit)

We all have our moments of brilliance and our seasons of idiocy. That’s what being human is. The goal isn’t to be perfectly wise. It’s to be less stupid next time. To recognize when your gut is right, even if your Instagram Explore page is screaming otherwise.

So yes, follow your heart. But maybe cross-check it with your liver. Eat the chilli, but keep some curd nearby. Trust your algorithm, but also remember it thought you were into dog grooming videos for three months because you accidentally watched one pomererian being shampooed.

And when that ancient, boring voice in your head speaks up again? Pause. Breathe. Maybe listen this time.

Because the real wisdom? It’s not trending. But it’s waiting for you. Usually with a glass of jeera water and a slightly judgmental smile.

Later.

Damn I’m smooth.
Memories

July 11th, 2025

We often think of memories as gentle things, sepia-toned moments neatly folded in the drawers of the mind. But sometimes, memories bite.

Dante said it best, “There is no greater sorrow than to recall a happy time in misery.” It’s not the pain itself that aches the most, it’s the echo of joy that came before it. A laugh that once rang like music now sounds like mockery. A smile, once comfort, now a ghost.

Change is strange that way. It comes quietly at first maybe disguised as a missed call, a forgotten birthday, a difference in tone , until one day you realize that what was once familiar has become foreign. You stand at the edge of what used to be your world and it doesn’t recognize you anymore.

But here’s the truth no one likes to admit:

Change is not betrayal. Change is just change.

We tend to hold people to the last version of themselves we loved. We expect the friend who once understood every silence to always be that way. The lover who once reached out first to always stay. But people are rivers, not statues. They twist, split, dry up, flood and so do we.

Time doesn’t ask permission.

Even the deepest bonds, no matter how heartfelt, are still mortal. Some grow with us. Others don’t.

We grieve that and we call it loss.

But really, it’s just that life continues on without our consent.

And so, when we sit alone, aching for the echo of a laughter that no longer visits us, when we replay old conversations in our heads like a broken record, we must also remind ourselves: That version of you, the one who laughed in that moment, loved with that heart, believed in that future, still exists. And that matters.

It matters even if the people in that memory have walked away.

Even if you no longer recognize the one who smiled back in that old photo.

Because memory is not always there to heal. Sometimes it comes to teach.

And other times, simply to remind you:

You were happy. Once… And you will be again.

Later.

Jd
Life in General

June 15th, 2025

So, how does one know it’s the calling they’re looking for?

Do you get recurring dreams?

Do butterflies start swirling around your head like a Disney princess?

Do you get a miracle postcard from the universe saying, “Hey Jay, drop everything — destiny’s waiting”?

Well, spoiler alert — I didn’t get the postcard. I didn’t even get the WhatsApp forward.

I did, however, have this very noble calling once:

I wanted to sit on that high chair. Not the baby one — the Judge’s Chair.

You know the one. Big, tall, wooden. Someone says “All Rise!” and boom — you glide in like a boss, robe flapping, gavel ready.

But no. Life had other plans. I still sit. But mostly on revolving chairs, navigating revolving cases. And the only “All Rise” I hear is my son rising up to demand biscuits during client calls.

This year, I had another calling. A spiritual one.

Gomukh.

Yes, the origin of the Ganga. Snow. Silence. Sadhus. Soul-searching.

I imagined myself walking with a stick, whispering Sanskrit verses to the wind, reaching Gomukh, and finally figuring out the point of it all.

Instead?

I went to the National Rail Museum.

Also to the Nehru Planetarium.

And let’s not forget the local mela — where I ate a suspicious-looking corn on the cob that felt more like Rajma on a stick (no offense to Rajma), and almost lost my child near the trampoline.

Wait — no, that didn’t happen. Who am I kidding?

I’m way too anxious to take my eyes off him even for a second. I practically track his movements like a highly trained commando — only less agile and slightly more sleep-deprived.

Still spiritual, I suppose. In a very parenting-is-karma kind of way.

Now don’t get me wrong — I’m not sad I didn’t become a judge.

Nor am I sad that Gomukh is still pending. (though, I may have watched a YouTube vlog about it in bed while eating chips).

Because in between these missed callings, I’ve been securing some amazing court orders, writing fierce legal notices, and winning surprise battles with life — sometimes with briefs, sometimes with baby wipes.

But still…

There’s this tiny little flute inside me. A wind flute. And every time I try to play it, life throws furniture in my path.

Deadlines, dishwashing, Delhi traffic, and dinosaurs (ok, toy ones — parenting again).

And instead of a soulful tune, it’s more like squeak-thud-oof.

So here I am — not at Gomukh, not in a courtroom, but scribbling in the middle of the night while trying not to wake the toddler or the dream that’s snoring softly in the corner.

And maybe that’s life in general.

Not always the calling.

But often, the misdial, the hold music, and the voice in your head saying — try again tomorrow.

And… All Rise… for the guy who went to Mela instead.

Later.
Jhalmuri

June 8th, 2025

Europeans came to our land in search of spices.

That’s what I’ve been told. In history books. In dinner-table lectures. And perhaps, even in some previous life, I was the vendor handing out a paper cone full of Jhalmuri to a Portuguese man who didn’t know what hit his palate.

You see, while others traded pepper, cardamom, or cinnamon, I, true to my entrepreneurial spirit was probably the guy saying, “Bhaisaab, le lo ekdum chatpata Jhalmuri! Masala extra, emotion free.”

Somewhere, I feel, that’s still who I am.

What is so great about Jhalmuri?

Everything and nothing.

It’s puffed rice, onions, mustard oil, green chillies, peanuts, some bhujia, coriander, tomatoes if you’re fancy, and lemon juice that tastes better when squeezed with existential dread. There is no recipe only instinct. No proportion only impulse. No balance, just chaos in a cone.

And it tastes divine.

My life, lately, has become Jhalmuri.

Too much chilli in the wrong place. Too little crunch. A lot of mustard oil floating on top, trying to pretend it’s holding things together. Every now and then, a surprise bite hits you, hard peanut, burnt rice, or something spicy that shouldn’t be legal.

It’s unstructured, imbalanced, overwhelming, and yet somehow… I keep munching.

People ask, “What’s going on?”

I say, “Life is Jhalmuri, boss.”

You may wonder, what do Europeans have to do with all this?

Absolutely nothing.

But I needed someone to blame. The British took Kohinoor, and I’m taking poetic license. It’s only fair. The bigger question is if we all sold our spices for silk and silver, what did we keep for ourselves?

My answer: Jhalmuri.

Unpackaged. Unbranded. Untamed.

Because when the world feels too much when plans crumble, routines dissolve, and people surprise you with their odd mix of sweetness and spice I don’t crave order. I crave Jhalmuri.

Maybe, just maybe:

Life is not meant to be a neatly plated continental course. It’s meant to be a roadside snack. Messy. Spontaneous. Eaten standing up while dodging traffic, opinions, and one’s own expectations.

So here’s to Jhalmuri.

May your life be as unapologetically unpredictable, mildly crunchy, and beautifully imbalanced.

Later. Jd.
Objection, Your Honour… What’s the Point?

June 1st, 2025

There’s a strange thing about victories. You wait for them. You prepare for them. You put your blood, your time, and your breath into chasing them. And then, when you finally hold them in your hand, they’re not quite what you expected.

As I sit down to write this, the thought is still forming. It’s not quite an article, not quite a diary entry—maybe just a mirror I’m holding up to myself. Maybe by the end of it, I’ll find an answer. Or maybe I won’t.

There was a time when I believed that the highest high I could ever feel would be clearing a competitive exam and becoming a judge. That image had become a kind of religion for me—waking up before the world, wrestling with law books, and imagining the day I’d be addressed as Your Honour.

Then I fell in love. Thought marriage would be the peak. I had someone in mind, someone from my college days. The story made sense in my head—two people who’d grown, evolved, and eventually found their way back to each other. That would be my “happily ever after.”

Then I held my newborn son in my arms. Life changed in that moment. His tiny heartbeat against my chest made me feel like everything had a reason. Surely, this was the ultimate high?

Turns out, life doesn’t work on a linear path of escalating highs. It isn’t a mountain with one glorious summit after another. It’s more like waves. They rise, they crash, they recede. And sometimes, you’re just floating, not knowing if the next wave will lift you or drown you.

Today was one of those “high” days. Four civil suits filed. Four injunctions granted. Everything went by the book. Sharp. Clean. Perfectly executed. I should’ve felt like a warrior coming back from battle. And for a moment—I did.

Then I sat in my car.

And just like that, a strange silence fell over me. The kind of silence that isn’t peaceful but empty. The kind that swallows applause, ambition, and even pride.

Suddenly, it felt like nothing mattered.

I don’t mean that in a cynical way. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t depressed. I was just… still.

And in that stillness, a truth emerged.

The real difference today wasn’t made by me.

It was made by that judge.

Not just a person occupying a chair, but someone who truly deserved to be there. Someone who understood the essence of justice—not just its letters, but its spirit.

It hit me then—maybe there’s no grand purpose or inferior purpose. Maybe purpose isn’t something to find or chase. Maybe it’s just… doing your job. Honestly. Consistently. Quietly.

Maybe the only real thing in this profession, or perhaps in life, is the integrity with which you show up each day. That’s it. No music. No medals.

Sometimes, I joke to myself—maybe I should leave it all behind and become a hermit. Just disappear into the woods with a few books, a warm blanket, and silence.

But even that is probably just another high I’m dreaming of. Another summit in disguise.

For now, I’ll return to work. I’ll keep filing, keep arguing, keep hoping. And maybe, once in a while, I’ll write.

Because maybe, just maybe, there’s some purpose in that too.

Later.

Jd
How to Organize Your Finances (When Your Salary is Just a Suggestion)

May 24th, 2025

Let’s talk about financial planning. Or as I like to call it: “A tragicomic fantasy written by someone who has clearly never had to skip dinner to afford petrol.”

You see, I recently came across this beautifully organized financial chart titled “How to Organize Your Finances.” It looked like it was designed by someone who probably uses “legacy” as a verb and drinks smoothies that cost more than my monthly electricity bill.

The chart was a masterpiece. It broke down your paycheck into thoughtful categories like Fixed Expenses, Living Expenses, Long-Term Savings, Mid-Term Savings, and Short-Term Goals. Then it whispered sweet financial nothings like “Retirement Fund,” “Investment Account,” and “High-Yield Savings.”

Adorable.

But here’s the thing: This entire plan assumes one major thing—that you actually have money.

Which brings me to my point: What if your job is a tragedy and your salary is a joke?

Let me walk you through my version of this financial plan:

INCOME

Expectation: Monthly paycheck deposited.

Reality: Salary arrives with the emotional commitment of a teenage boyfriend—late, inconsistent, and full of excuses.

Retirement Fund: Just a polite way of saying “Die working.”

EXPENSES

Let’s get one thing straight—everything is an expense. Even staying alive.

FIXED EXPENSES

Bills: Mostly reminders of poor life choices.

Debt: Yes. Next question. Subscriptions: Netflix and denial. Health: God bless generic paracetamol. Insurance: Only thing more invisible than my savings.

LIVING EXPENSES

Food: Maggi is a food group, right? Fun: What’s that?

Clothes: Hope the holes in my socks count as ventilation.

Gas: Pray, ride, repeat.

SAVINGS

Short-Term: Emergency fund? You mean like that ₹70 I keep in my sock drawer?

Mid-Term: Vacation fund? Yes, I take daily mental vacations to the Maldives during 5 minutes of poop time.

Long-Term: Retirement savings? Sure, I’ve saved enough to buy myself a chocolate bar in 2047.

Ongoing Funds: My only ongoing fund is “Pretend This Isn’t Happening Fund.”

INVESTMENTS

In Myself: Questionable return.

In the Stock Market: I once put ₹500 in a mutual fund. It’s now ₹472.38.

In Hope: Currently trading at an all-time low.

You see, it’s not that I don’t want to follow this beautifully crafted budget—it’s just that my paycheck comes, waves a sad little hello, pays rent, and disappears faster than my self-esteem during appraisal season.

But hey, we’re not giving up. We’re just…financially flexible. We don’t have a “retirement account”—we have vibes. We don’t invest in stocks—we invest in coping mechanisms. And we don’t save for emergencies—we ARE the emergency.

So here’s to financial planning in the time of emotional damage and economic heartbreak.

Because when your job is a tragedy and your salary is a joke—laughter may be the only thing you can afford.

P.S. I put this blog on a high-yield savings account. It earned two likes and a pity comment from my mom.

Later.

Jd
Confessions

April 28th, 2025

Guys, I have a confession to make.

I don’t hate eavesdropping —

but I don’t encourage it either.

Let’s just say, sometimes life throws a juicy dialogue your way and you’re just… there.

Minding your own business (mostly).

A couple of weeks ago, I took my son — my 28-month-old whirlwind — to see the fountain in our society.

(He calls it the “water pool”, with that twinkle in his eye that says he’s very seriously considering jumping straight into it.)

There I was, being a responsible adult, keeping an eye on my little daredevil, making sure he didn’t turn into a fish…

when I overheard something.

Two school-going girls were chatting nearby, and one of them said,

“Arre, now Siddharth is here and you’re not talking to him. But when he’s not around, you keep crying for him!”

I caught the quick exchange of glances when they realized I’d heard them.

I pretended to look extra concerned about my son — because, frankly, I was concerned.

He was inching way too close to the water with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel.

A few moments later, the same girl turned to “Siddharth” and said,

“Arre no, he’s just a friend. Don’t think anything else.”

And that’s when it hit me.

Nothing has changed.

Not even a little bit.

Friendzoning — that old, stubborn, inevitable rite of passage — still lives on.

Even after all these years, after all the exposure, smartphones, reels, podcasts, dating apps, AI, ChatGPT (hi),

young people are still getting tangled in the same old ‘just friends’ mess.

Just like we did.

As I scooped up my son before he could stage-dive into the fountain, I couldn’t help but smile.

The players have changed.

The slang has evolved.

The memes have gotten way cooler.

But the game?

The game remains exactly the same.

At that moment, it hit me harder:

Social media may have accelerated a lot of things (especially how quickly teenagers get into relationships — and out of them)

but it hasn’t managed to fix the basic formula:

People still don’t know what they want, but they desperately want it anyway.

And somewhere between stopping my kid from auditioning for Finding Nemo and overhearing the next line of drama, another realization dawned:

Wait… am I seriously standing here thinking about teenagers getting more action than adults?

Am I…

turning into an uncle?

Maybe I am.

Maybe growing older is just realizing that every generation thinks they’re inventing life for the first time —

while the older ones are standing on the sidelines, quietly chuckling,

“Beta, we invented that confusion long before Instagram made it glamorous.”

And you know what?

I don’t mind it.

Because someday, my own little “water pool diver” will grow up.

He’ll probably friendzone someone or get friendzoned himself.

He’ll think it’s the end of the world.

And I’ll just smile, hand him a cold drink, and tell him —

“Bhai, it’s a phase. Stay dry — literally and emotionally.”

Until then, I’ll be here.

Guarding the fountains, observing the dramas, and slowly — but surely — graduating into Uncle Mode.

Life’s weird like that.

But it’s also kind of beautiful.L

Later.
INDIA THY NAME, SAHARA THY FEELS: WALKING THROUGH APRIL IN A BLACK COAT

April 9th, 2025

There was a chapter in a game once—Endless Summer, in Bully. I remember finishing it and thinking—this wasn’t fun. You may disagree, game indeed was fun, but relentless sun, and chasing shadows once game is finished rarely spell joy.

Aa Now, decades later, that fictional summer seems to have leapt out of the screen and onto the streets of India. And let me tell you—it’s not fun to play.

As a lawyer, my daily uniform is a black coat. A fine choice in winter, a professional necessity in spring—but in April 2025? It feels like I’m cosplaying as charcoal. I’ve surrendered. Not to the heat alone, but to air-conditioning and a tall glass of chilled lassi. My only rebellion is that I haven’t started commuting by camel yet. But give it time. With India mirroring sub-Saharan temperatures, maybe that’s the next logical step.

This isn’t just dramatic prose—this is data-backed dread. According to the Climate Change Institute, University of Maine, the temperature map from April 7, 2025, paints a sobering picture. India is blazing, glowing red-hot like it’s auditioning to be the new Sahara. And it’s not even peak summer.

Climate change has a peculiar way of sneaking up on us—first as headlines, then as heatwaves, then as altered routines. We shrug, we adapt, we install another AC. But adaptation isn’t a solution, it’s a sedative. And while we cool our homes, the planet continues to warm.

There’s a cruel irony in all this. The earth is getting hotter and hotter—but not in the Salma Hayek way. It’s not Chris Hemsworth hot. It’s hemisphere-on-fire hot. The kind that makes you rethink dress codes, urban planning, public transport, and planetary priorities.

Maybe the answer isn’t just in policy or protest. Maybe it’s in satire, awareness, and sweaty, honest conversations. Maybe it’s in writing this post, somewhere between courtroom rounds and a glass of buttermilk, hoping someone reads it and thinks: This isn’t normal. This shouldn’t be normal.

Till then, I’ll keep my black coat, my lassi, and perhaps order a Saharan robe—because if I can’t save the planet, I can at least survive it in style.

Later.

Later, in case we survive.
Boardhemian Rhapsody

April 8th, 2025

It’s 3:47 AM.

The world is asleep.

My toddler is finally snoring like a baby dragon.

The EMIs are snoozing quietly in my netbanking tab.

My phone is on silent.

The kitchen is cleaned and waiting for a peaceful morning brew.

And I’m sweating like I’m in the Sahara because I just dreamt that my 12th board exams start in 23 minutes and—surprise!—I haven’t studied a single chapter of organic chemistry.

Why?

Because clearly, my subconscious thinks the only thing standing between me and “being a responsible adult” is my inability to balance a redox reaction or draw the graph of sin²x. Not the fact that I haven’t had an emergency fund since 2015 or that my idea of a workout is chasing my toddler with half a sock in his mouth.

Two decades. Two whole decades since I last touched a Class 12 textbook.

Since then, I’ve learned how to do my taxes, write emails that start with “Hope this finds you well” and end with “Thanks & Regards,” and calculate discounts while shopping like a NASA scientist on a budget.

But nope—my brain still thinks “life preparation” means memorizing the periodic table.

And you know what’s worse?

These dreams don’t strike when I’m solving life crises.

No, they arrive when I’m at my happiest.

Planning a long weekend. Finally about to sit on the couch and sip the coffee made by my lovely wife.

Basically, just when I start to believe I’ve earned a moment of peace, boom!

“Kya Jayendra, is this the time to relax? Have you revised thermodynamics?”

I once tried to talk to a therapist about this. She said, “It’s a common dream. A metaphor for feeling unprepared.”

I wanted to say, “Ma’am, at this point, even my nightmares are repeating syllabus.”

But maybe ChatGPT was right when it said my dreams reflect my fear of being unprepared for life.

The problem is—what part of life can I even prepare for?

Marriage? There’s no chapter in NCERT titled “How to say ‘I’m sorry’ even when you don’t know why.”

Parenting? No worksheet prepares you for “What to do when toddler uses toothpaste as wall paint.”

Finance? I know trigonometry but I still don’t know where my PF account is.

So yes, I may not be ready for every twist and turn in life.

But I am ready to face one fact:

I will never escape the ghost of Board Exams.

And as long as I keep running low on sleep, insurance, and backup plans… my subconscious will always be that annoying invigilator in the dream who says: “Five minutes left. Attempt all questions.”

So, dear dream:

Let me live.

Let me sit.

Let me sip my coffee.

And please, for the love of caffeine and adulting…

let me forget the structure of benzene.

Later.