18 Apr 2016


He is a compendium of superlatives. 

He is tall, super tall. Like 6 feet 3 inches tall. And lanky. Super lanky. Body-can-be-used-as-an-exhibit-in-a-biology-lab lanky. He is also super intelligent, isn’t he? He has an IQ of 139, scored a centum in Math in Grade 10 without ever studying, and calculates bills for his mum better than the best of grocers. He is also the sweetest of them all. And the funniest and the most fluent in sarcasm too.

He has the highest expectations as well. And he is the most scared. Of not meeting those expectations. Of falling the shortest of his own impossible standards. 

So he doesn’t step out. Or peek. Or even risk sticking his pinky finger out. He just sits there in his own world, doing repetitions of the same action that helps numb the mind from whirring too much (like a clock on caffeine). Slowly, unknowingly, but surely slipping down a spiral, that may or may not have a slightly bent end. 

But it’s okay. Really. We’ll pull him out. We will ALWAYS pull him out.