Esc

Sometimes the whole world is not enough. Sometimes all I want is you. Everything else stops pretending to be a substitute. The struggle pauses, takes a breath. Reality bites. Nothing consoles. Tears ooze. Sometimes.

Fucking sometimes. All I hear are my screams. Deathlike and hollow. Deafening and desperate. This present looms large, the future blinds. Blinds with fear. All roads shut. No escape. No escape. No escape.

Sometimes I look out of sheets of glass and forget the about everything inside. Sometimes I dissolve, literally dissolve into a being of unconsciousness. Not asking questions or seeking answers. Just moving in and out of tunnels of randomness, deeply involved.

Sometimes I ask myself why I can't feel. I try to sheer off my layers of immunity. Inculcate envy, from the ones who live. But I cannot. Numbness is the preferred alternative, no matter what.

Lately, I think my writing has lost its honesty, a lot. Feels so. There are numerous numerous incomplete drafts. Sometimes I open them and read through. Each one is a stuck story. Inside my mind, they had no where to proceed. No future. All roads shut. No escape. My stories are becoming more like me.

Anxiety is killing me. I have begun to believe that both happyness and sorrow are mere chemicals in my brain. If my moods were graphs, I can see them dip and plummet, and fall into abysses. Bottomless ones. I can see kinks too, you know kinks. Short-lived, artificial kinks. Meaningless.

It's all vague. That's how it should be. Distinct lines should fade out into vague hazes. Chaos should outlast order. Inertness should out-throw senses.

Dearth hasn't killed me. Intoxication hasn't numbed me. Love hasn't broken me. Sometimes I feel they did. But apparently they didn't. Because I am still here. Writing this. For who knows who.