There is. A crumpled shirt at the bottom of the wardrobe that nobody's gonna wear again. Shoes that gave unbearable shoe bites the first time and won't be touched again. Nail paint that weren't worth what they cost. Amongst other things bought and sold. There also is a guy. Man. Person. And one or two more inside the phone. Who don't just suffice. None of them make it to the mark. There's a few unread and worthy books. There's food. Frozen in the oven. And dark chocolate wrapped in scrap shiny paper. Purchased with money. For relief from some biting heartache. Just like lingerie. There is a lot of stories inside of my head. That should be read out aloud. Some day. Also a wild rage, a madness, insanity like nothing before strangled within. There is also the innocence. An innocence of not knowing the reason behind having everything. And yet having nothing at all.

There is everything. Yet nothing makes me want to be alive more than be dead. U understand.

I can feel a point where my clavicles meet the sternum. That's where this emptiness hurts the most. And when I close my eyes I can. I can feel my flesh collapsing into that solo point. And then the whole entire world following past.


jnana said...

As horrible as this feeling sounds, it's been described very beautifully.

prateek mathur said...

I am trying to write a comment but frankly I am out of words....there is no way the feeling of reading something, so close to you, that is written by a stranger, can be described in words.

Ritika Gupta said...

Absolutely loved it.. sometimes i have all those words flash as pictures in front of me.. abstract.. unrelated.. yet so part of life.. nondetachable..

Surya Prakash V said...


When I find myself exhausted, I end up wondering what is exhausted, everything seems exasperatingly full and brimming and just as empty.