Writers Jam

diwali no longer feels like celebration. it feels like memory wearing a borrowed smile. the lights are too bright now, they expose the cracks in our laughter, the dust we tried to hide beneath carpets of ritual. the diyas flicker like fragile promises of love, of togetherness, of time that won’t return. i stand among people i call family, yet everyone feels distant as if we are planets spinning around the same sun of tradition, pretending not to notice the silence between our orbits. the sweets taste the same but the sweetness doesn’t reach the heart anymore. perhaps that’s what growing up means understanding that light doesn’t always heal, sometimes it just reveals what’s been dim all along. the fireworks outside mimic the chaos within. the sky bursts open for a second, then folds back into darkness like hope reminding you it exists but won’t stay. adulthood teaches you that even festivals are mortal and yet amid all the noise and exhaustion, one small diya keeps burning not out of faith, but defiance. a quiet insistence that even in the ruins of joy, light can still choose to live.