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How do I tell you? 

How do I explain the frustration of a flat tire? That moment just before, when you feel in your heart that it’s going to happen. Some fucking bullshit, designed specifically to ruin you. The pop, the loudest fucking thing, your ears and and your brain in shambles. The first bump, sending tidal waves crashing through my back. And each one that follows, in my legs and arms and the edges of my being. 

How do I explain this to you? How do I explain why I must care, why I cannot stop caring about this. How despite it not being the end of the world, it’s the end of a journey and the new one will invariably be different? How do I say that even if I sound pompous or hysterical, it is merely a drop from the ocean raging inside of me? Guess I’ll just patch it up and move along instead. 


-Divij Kulkarni 

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