Every time it rains, I feel engulfed by the heavy fog that blankets the hills each morning when I wake up. I remember the times when I would joyfully accompany the raindrops, dancing and singing with every drop. Now, however, all I feel is a profound emptiness.
Just yesterday, it rained, with every drop kissing the land and inviting me to join its symphony. But something snapped within me. A voice in my head said, "No, don't go; it's safe inside." Another voice chimed in, "No, you aren't worth it. The rain is pure, and you aren't worthy of it. Don't go." All these voices, which I recognized as my own, echoed in my mind as I thought about going outside. In the end, they consumed me, and I chose to stay inside, battling my thoughts and those voices instead.
With the ongoing battle in my mind, another struggle emerged. A vivid memory of a boy I had seen in the asylum just a few days ago came to me. I spotted him from the back window of his ward while wandering through my neighborhood in Kathmandu. He appeared deeply depressed; tears streamed down his face, and his eyes conveyed a profound emptiness—similar to what I felt in this rain-soaked moment. I began to worry that I might be starting to feel like him. Could I find myself in the ward next to his?
But then another thought interrupted my spiraling overthinking: "Bro, don't stress! You're just a normal teenager—everyone overthinks. You're simply empathetic toward him, nothing more. This fixation on the rain? You've grown up; rain doesn't fascinate a late teen the way it does a child. So toughen up. You're not losing your mind; you're maturing."
Caught between these conflicting voices, I felt like a mother stuck mediating an argument between her children, confused and frustrated by the chaos in my head.