Sell me a lungful of air
The words scream out at you. White over red. Red over white. Or perhaps some other range of colours. What do they sell I wonder? Happiness? Or the idea that we will always need something more to keep us satiated? Not contentment, not satisfaction. Satiation.
That feeling you get when you gorge on a quintessential Bengali meal at a hotel because you miss home, before you go back to your empty room again; that feeling you get when you cram biscuits down your throat, knowing you have had three packets too many already, because you need something to take your mind off the near-physical pain in your chest; that feeling you get when you try to counter that the next day by eating bare minimum, anxiously checking your weight on the scale, away from prying eyes; that feeling you get when you want to cuddle because you are sick and it tumbles out of his mouth ever so honestly that the feverish warmth you bring with you is not welcome, but then he tells you that he will get you biriyani; that feeling you get when you wish you didn't have to go to work and could just lie in on a Monday morning, and your salary gets credited when you step inside your house that same evening; that feeling you get when you chop your hair off because you need something, anything to change for the better, and you step out missing the way your hair used to fall over your shoulders; that feeling you get when you see people you love leaving for faraway lands, to better, shinier things, and you tell yourself that you atleast have Skype installed.
Satiation. The knowledge that maybe today you haven't failed. Tomorrow is another day.