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By Naseeba Babale

I do not know how to describe this anger that holds us ransom sometimes. This burning rage that threatens to blow us into extinction with its flames. This endless abyss of frustration we fall into merely moments after basking under the rays of elation. This magma that pours on our hearts from nowhere and burn our spirits down to ashes. This thing that makes people stare at us in confusion, wondering how someone could slip from the top to the bottom in the split of a second. This heartless devil that makes some of us go through endless torrents of unnecessary exorcism, spiritual incense inhalation, all sort of concoctions and sometimes merciless whipping all in order to get rid of the non-existent demons in us.

I do not know how to explain the spontaneity of it all. How much audacity runs in the veins of whatever this is called. How it gives no notice before making our moods its home, changing it at its will with, absolutely, no consideration for what we want. How much it takes the rein on our tongues and lash out on people that have no idea what they did wrong, or why they deserve such downpour of harsh words. How much it makes us crave solitude, crave the allure of emptiness, the appeal of the void and the reward that comes with being on your own.

So the next time you see us wearing a garment that is not our own, know that there is a non-existent demon in charge of our wardrobes.

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