Thirty-six

Last month, I tip-toed into any year.

It has been a very long time that I felt like myself. 

I do not, perhaps, remember myself anymore. Frankly, there are no memories. My brain is either too exhausted to save and record anything, or it's playing the trick that she usually does - keep quiet and live on auto-pilot now and unleash the floods of what's happening presently a decade from now when these years will become clearer than day. I beg, it's the former. Because, I want to dissolve. 

Because, I don't want to mean anything. Ever. I just want to close my eyes and rest a bit. For days and weeks, relentless. 

Because, I feel like I've become less of a person, more like a non-person. Earlier, I used to hide myself inside a shell. But now, the self inside the shell has dissolved without a sign and only the shell remains. There is nothing that defines me. I've got no ideas. 

I am a mere list of tasks, like a shopping list. I put food on the table, I eat, and I close my eyes, hoping to rest. But I never really. The disintegration that's happened over the years, is irreversible. I wish, something had remained. Some bits of the person I was stood beside me, against the tides of change, but alas, all is eroded. Leaving a weird tasting foul mouthed angry dreamless vacuum. 

Whatever.

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