Che

It's not this blog. It's not the black shorts I  bought today. Or the never worn frock in my wardrobe. It's not him either. Nor is it the other him. Or some random guy I saw. Came across. It's not the weather. It's not stuff I am running away from. Nor is it my job. Or the money. Or the new shades. That look too big on my face. And make my lips look old. Or the lessening fragrance of shampoo in my hair. Nor is it that the weekend is here and I am feeling so fat again. Or the couches I sat on, the magazines I zipped through. Pausing on the pictures. Waiting for un-happening appointments. Or the cups I sipped from. Or the times I wiped my lipstick off. Or the couple of times my sandals gave me the feel they were about to break off in the middle of the road. Or the cabbies that didn't halt to my screams. Nor the weird make up sales girl who stood by me at the mall. It's also not that I ain't writing much lately. Or that I walk back alone every night not thinking of what I would write when I get home. Nor is it my internet connection that sucks. Nor the sitcoms I watch despite them boring me to death. Or the sleep that I don't get. It's not those numerous calls I make to numerous customer care toll free numbers and keep talking to machines. Hoping I would get to talk to a person, who would just solve my problem off in a wink. Nor is it affecting me that I have stopped believing. And trusting on mad forces outside my control. It's nothing. It's nothing that I can see.

Yet there is something, somewhere that's killing me. Absolutely. It's some wild excitement that thrills the ends of my nerves. And I feel, the walls of my body shouldn't contain me anymore.