My friend Crisda told me this before she passed away from cancer.
I had the world’s most expensive car brand in my garage but now I’m traveling in a wheelchair.
My house is full of all kinds of designer clothing, shoes and valuables. But my body is wrapped in a small sheet of cloth provided by the hospital.
There is enough money in the bank. But now I’m not benefiting from that money.
My house is like a palace but I’m laying In a double size bed in a hospital.
I can go from a five star hotel to another five star hotel. But now I’m spending time moving from bed to the lab in the hospital.
I had seven jewellery to decorate my hair. Now I don’t have hair on my head.
With a private jet, I can fly wherever I want. But now I need two people’s help to get to the hospital patio.
Although there are many foods, my diet has two tablets a day and a few drops of salt at night.
This house, this car, this jet, this furniture, so many bank accounts, none of them are useful.
None of the valuables could give me relief.
Real life is about entertaining many people and making them smile. Nothing is real but death. Life is so short.
But then I wrote to her.
The tragedy of it all was that you
knew you deserved better
but you still stayed and died little more
each night like a
slow motion suicide.
// This poem has been penned by 11-year-old Trying Riddhima and was recited by her at the Children’s Poetry Open Mic on Mental Health organized by WICCI National Mental Health Council in association with Beyond the Box on 18th September 2021 //