Dark, humid nights follow the disappointing days, in a mirthless game of Tag. The people are apathetic. They offer no emotions in exchange for yours and no attention either. They walk in and out of the paper thin walls of your day and leave you feeling strange; like there’s a tug in the pit of your stomach.

In these nights, when the clouds all come and make small talk above your home, you wish you were a child again. You wish you were five, maybe six, playing in rubber slippers in the stairwell.

You wish that your days were wrapped in endless games of cricket and tall glasses of juice and your nights were blissfully calm, in preparation of another riotous day.

In the mornings, after you’ve woken up from a warped nightmares and the fizzling hope of a childlike existence, you find yourself wondering when you can sleep again. Then you remember the unpleasant taste that the nights bring along and you are lost; because there’s nothing to hope for even.