More often than not, mad people find me.
They single me out from crowd and approach me.
I cringe, hold tight onto my belongings, fluttering my gaze at the crowd awkwardly and beseechingly.
A teenaged boy with crazed look in his eyes stands beside and murmurs indistinctly.
About his mother, about how hungry he is.
A batshit crazy woman who hurls stones at people sits beside me and rants about her daughter-in-law and how she misses having morning tea.
I look around embarrassingly until someone in the sane crowd snaps and shoos them away.
They retreat with a look on their face.
As if I have betrayed them.
As if I have refused to recognise them.
As if, in this unfathomable universe, in some time frame in past when God distributed madness, my soul waited in a queue with theirs.
Happens with me often. Dedicated to a little madness that we all have in us. Some of us are just good at keeping up appearances. While others are just called as 'mental'.
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