At times life is a little too consuming, difficult to accept and deal with. The farther you run from reality, the faster it catches up with you. You can never just make believe or play pretend (huge drawback of growing up) because that makes you a coward - someone in denial.
Backspace, backspace, every word I type I am inevitably deleting. The pressure is too much see ? I've been subjected to a microscopic evaluation. I'm afraid of falling into a cliche and am trying desperately to avoid it. A dear friend (whom I want to murder at the moment) turns 25 soon. Another friend asked me what I was doing for him ? I'm quite the maniac when it comes to birthdays. I mumbled something about having bought a pair of shoes. My friend pestered, "And?"
After some thought I replied, "I might write a letter."
But words don't come easy now. They're forced out, writing like an obligation - a compulsion. I refuse then to pen them at all. Why ruin the feelings ? Yes, I don't write letters anymore. Maybe I wrote one too many and saw them disrespected or neglected or eroding with time to muster up the strength to pick up the quill again. Blogging is easier, it's safe. I don't give anyone the power to hurt me. No replies expected. No preserving required.
There was a time when I was told I could move the moment, now I find it hard to tell one apart from the other. It's one big endless drag to nothing. I used to have an imaginary friend as a kid. He never had a name, I'm not even sure whether it was a he or a she. But I would talk to him when I felt alone. The loneliness is so deep rooted now that even he's not around when I look over my shoulder. I close my eyes and find the words stuck in my throat. I can't even talk to myself. I've exhausted... I'm exhausted.
This is not saying I'm unhappy though. I am pretty content at the moment - just void of thoughts. It used to be my greatest fear - becoming someone who would stare into space with an absolutely empty mind. Now I find out it's quite alright. Silence can be eerily comforting or vividly disheartening. I'm yet to make the final call.
Among other things, I could really use a smoke right about now. I could really use a friend too actually. Or a parent. But I think music will have to suffice. See that's the thing about morning rants poured out after waking up to a moist pillowcase. It doesn't make much sense, even to the writer himself when subjected to a reread. Ironically for me though, these incoherent, disconnected blobs of nothing will never cease to make sense. They reek of me.
Backspace, backspace, every word I type I am inevitably deleting. The pressure is too much see ? I've been subjected to a microscopic evaluation. I'm afraid of falling into a cliche and am trying desperately to avoid it. A dear friend (whom I want to murder at the moment) turns 25 soon. Another friend asked me what I was doing for him ? I'm quite the maniac when it comes to birthdays. I mumbled something about having bought a pair of shoes. My friend pestered, "And?"
After some thought I replied, "I might write a letter."
But words don't come easy now. They're forced out, writing like an obligation - a compulsion. I refuse then to pen them at all. Why ruin the feelings ? Yes, I don't write letters anymore. Maybe I wrote one too many and saw them disrespected or neglected or eroding with time to muster up the strength to pick up the quill again. Blogging is easier, it's safe. I don't give anyone the power to hurt me. No replies expected. No preserving required.
There was a time when I was told I could move the moment, now I find it hard to tell one apart from the other. It's one big endless drag to nothing. I used to have an imaginary friend as a kid. He never had a name, I'm not even sure whether it was a he or a she. But I would talk to him when I felt alone. The loneliness is so deep rooted now that even he's not around when I look over my shoulder. I close my eyes and find the words stuck in my throat. I can't even talk to myself. I've exhausted... I'm exhausted.
This is not saying I'm unhappy though. I am pretty content at the moment - just void of thoughts. It used to be my greatest fear - becoming someone who would stare into space with an absolutely empty mind. Now I find out it's quite alright. Silence can be eerily comforting or vividly disheartening. I'm yet to make the final call.
Among other things, I could really use a smoke right about now. I could really use a friend too actually. Or a parent. But I think music will have to suffice. See that's the thing about morning rants poured out after waking up to a moist pillowcase. It doesn't make much sense, even to the writer himself when subjected to a reread. Ironically for me though, these incoherent, disconnected blobs of nothing will never cease to make sense. They reek of me.
You almost sound like me, except that smoke part. :P
ReplyDeleteMost(Read:All) of my posts, I feel like WTH did I just write.
Haha, send me a link of your blog ?
ReplyDeleteYou don't want to do that ... I mean seriously, you don't. :P
ReplyDeleteMy Blog - The Shaded Shadows !!!
I shall get to it right after this wave of my exams. Do wait :P
ReplyDeleteHaha. Yeah, *Waiting*. :P
DeleteBut I am still warning you not to. :P
By the way, All the Best for the Exams. :)