The balance sheet of being, In the quiet hours with my accountancy books,
Amid the theories of economics, I unearthed a truth
That strikes me as profoundly wrong:
“Depreciation doesn’t apply to living beings.”
As if we’re mere objects,
rare exceptions
in a world of commodities,
Unbreakable, immeasurable,
and grand.
But are we really?
can’t you measure the gaps between my smile?
can’t you count the number of crooked teeth when I laugh?
Can’t you see the loneliness seep from my façade of wholeness?
When you glance in the mirror,
Don’t you ask, “Where has that person gone?”
Do you not feel the absence of the children we once were?
I feel it—
Each day, we depreciate,
Bit by bit, piece by piece,
Fading with the passage of time.
The love that once anchored us now deepens my silence;
The people I once cherished no longer grasp my fatigue.
How can textbooks so confidently assert
That we escape this cycle of loss?
I depreciate with every test I fail,
With each blow life delivers,
With every fall I endure.
Yet here’s the strangest part:
In accounting, we meticulously track depreciation,
I long for a “heart ledger,”
To document each piercing transaction,
To measure the leaves that tremble on this tree,
Counting down until it finally breaks apart.
By: Ekansha Malkoti
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