Wilted Words

I adjusted the lighting of room ten times already, changed the place of my chair around my desk, tried different pens, different journals, different words to start with but all I have is nothing. This is the result of a monotonic life. A routine that is comfortable and convenient, yet dull and rather grey. I wake up around the same time everyday, go to work, do the same things, see the same people, do the same chores, walk the same streets, pass the same allies, listen to the same songs, sleep around the same time, when sleep comes, that if it does. I don't knows what it is that keeps me awake, that triggers a cascade of overthinking episodes. For someone who merely does anything new, or feels anything new or exciting anymore, I certainly think a lot. In my transition from an overly emotional and sympathetic person to a more concrete and grounded person, I think I have lost my ability to express myself. I am afraid that I no longer have it in me, the passion that once filled m...

My ink stained fingers tremble as I write this. A memoir for my thoughts, for the empty life I lead, for all the things I felt, the things I never dared to say. Here on this paper my thoughts lay, rest in chaos, intersecting thought, incomplete and confused. I don't think I am making any sense but that is not the point to begin with. The longing to belong to something or to someone is draining me. I can't shake the feeling of oddness and of being out of place. These thoughts are a bed of nails that I sleep in every night. They sting my flesh and I lay there and bleed . I often wonder why does the world hate me so much? Or more accurately why doesn't it accept me as I am. As I take a look back at my weak attempts at anything, I realize that maybe I am the problem. After all how do I expect the world to give me love when I can't give it back? Except that..... I can. I am overflowing with love that I have no one to give to, I am a vessel, filled to the brim with...