When you start laughing again, you must also build a convincing case for it. And when you lose your laughter, even if intermittently and temporarily, you must, again, make a case for it. You must, at all times, be prepared with a defence. This, and only this, is what it means to be a person—to be your own counsel, your own defence because God knows what people may ask when they ask things, and you do not want to be flustered. Some days are so unsavoury, albeit not bad or terrible, just rancid in their aftertastes, like some spoilt fish or an egg or a love affair, that you only wish to distance yourself from them. You want to get off your chair, and you want to begin walking without a plan. And when they end, even then, you continue walking away from them. There are days like this in all lives. But you must let them end when they have when the clock strikes midnight, and if possible, before that, much before that. You must tuck yourself into a blanket, play some soft music and go to sleep. Some days end moments after they begin. An hour or minute from that point on feels like smacking a corpse. When the world allows us, and as soon as we hang the coat of responsibility, we must let them end.
The evening was foggy, and there was a stink in the air, and at first, I wondered where it came from. Then I realised it was my disposition that was spoilt. So, I opened the windows and let it waft away. There is no defence for this. There is only one excuse: I woke up and did not feel like my sleep did me any good. There is little we can do about it when this happens. So, I tell myself: you did your duties, you were a human, albeit reluctantly, and now, you must let it end where it ends. There is no point fighting this, no point at all. You must lay down your sword, and you must hush your words. The day ended long ago. Let go, let go.