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I don’t know what I am going to write… As usual. I am mostly confused whether I should talk to myself or to someone else. I have these urges of spending time with other people. But, at the same time there are barely any people I like spending time with. I over-think things, because that is the only way I can create enough noise to change my mood as soon as things get dark. That, and because I’m compulsively creative (for the same purpose). I am purely reflective. i.e. I am versatile to get into any role a person or situation demands. But this versatility is also damaging to my identity. I suffer from basic problems like not knowing what I like or dislike. I cannot do those, “Quick! Tell me what you want to do right now!” kind of games. While most people lose all layers and dig out their identity after that statement, I go blank. Because I do not want anything. I have no desires in life, nor aim, nor purpose. And hence, no ambition. I can pick up a piece of paper on the street because it bothers me, or I can burn the entire street with the people on it … because it bothers me. I suffer from a daily identity crisis, leading to perennial day-dreaming, depression, dazedness, and whatnot (clinical or non-clinical, I don’t know, and frankly, I am too​ tired to care). I basically become lost and dysfunctional.

What helps, however, is something that keeps me grounded. And by grounded, I mean, something that keeps me interested. Not grounded to reality. Because in reality, there is barely anything I feel drawn towards. Except problems… Biiiig scope of engagement for me. The only thing that can distract me from my problems, is somebody else’s. However, even in that case, I lose interest quickly if it is not complex enough (mentally) or immersive enough (emotionally).

So far, I have been using the word, “something”. Mainly because even though people and animal-people create a greater and lasting impact, they are rare and not dependable. Of course, I do not mean it in a negative sense, but more of a realistic view. Because, unlike me, people have an agenda. Or at least a driving force that gets them out of bed most days (if not all). Something that I crave. The only thing that gets me out of bed is the fear of not hurting plans or feelings. I cater to my parents’ expectations because of the same reason. Solving problems and the ability to do so is precious to me. It is what I survive on. If I create them instead, it hurts me more than the harm I do to myself by sacrificing my infrequent desires. It’s not like the next desire is going to pop up anytime soon. So, I have enough time to make peace with the road not taken.

I do not believe in regrets. I have made all the choices I have made with complete awareness of the consequences. What I do have trouble making peace with, however is the need for someone to talk to. It doesn’t happen very often and it takes me off guard every time it does. And it puts me in a maddening state of depression every time I can’t find the right person to talk to, for that moment. The energy it takes me to gain back control is too high and I am mentally exhausted by the time I do so. When I get more work from the day's proceedings, I have to slow down the rate at which I work so that I can do it properly. This results in constant nags about speeding up. But by that time I am too low on energy to respond and continue doing what I am doing at that slow, deliberate pace.

It is at these moments that a plain and simple hug or just a “Hi” would have been enough. It is at these moments I don’t contemplate, but actually plan out and calculate my farewell moments. It is at these moments that my emotional manifests into the physical and develops into pains and aches that I cannot comprehend and neither have the energy to do so. These are my quiet cries for help. This is perhaps the last time I will complain…


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With Fear and dread overcome,
Moments dampening my spirit.
There is a brand new world
Made for me but I ain't in it.

These roles that I choose
And the masks that I wear
Ripping holes; I stagger confused
As I'm slowly stripped bare.

Shadows and silhouettes,
Shifting me like I'm broken.
I can't find my heart
Though I'm torn open.

I cry not for shame, I guess
Because shame's just a token,
A mark, to show the mess
That you can expiate, once spoken.

In a lucid dream I lay,
Not sleeping, nor awakened.
A suspended immortality
Not living, nor dead.