Wilted Words

As I look at the shoe box hidden under my bed, I wounder, how absurd it is to try to tuck someone's entire existence in such a small space. How could all the memories fit there, all the thoughts and late night conversations, All the fears, the nicknames, the inside jokes, And the secret codes. They are just ink on paper now. They're just soft whispers that I barely remember, They're nothing but remnants of a dead body of the love that we murdered. I don't dare glance or stare at it, This box, Is the monster under my bed. This box, Is the voices in my head. Of maybes and what ifs, Of what could've been said or done. Of the words we couldn't say, And the things we shouldn't have said. And still, I wonder, Will I ever be while again ? Will I ever have the heart to erase your memory, And create myself again, Apart from you. Will I ever stop searching for myself between your words ? I can't be the only one living like this, I don't ...

In a year or two, none of this will matter. It might take longer than you expect, or maybe it won't take as long as you might think it would, after all, time is a man made concept, and anticipation seems to alters the duration of waiting for things to end or begin. There are a few things, though, that would help you endure the following sufferings,  The suffering of maybe . .. The uncertainty.. The doubts creeping up on you every day, every minute, every second... The potent yet pale fear of not ever being who you want to be and that all your efforts and attempts are futile and the you will never be enough... The unfamiliarity of how cruel and uneducated or indifferent you are some times, The strangeness of your own self some times, Or how you tuck your flaws and enemies safely in your bed every night, snoring, non bothered and insolent, not allowing you a good night sleep. The enormity of these things will overwhelm you, at some days, I am not going to lie to you. These...

It all ends in a haze. The rush of adrenaline, No longer existing, The memories fading They fade, Gradually, The withdrawal symptoms persisting and everlasting. It all starts there In a swarm of bustling voices, Where the intersecting chatter clusters in the air, Rapidly, Making up a dense veil of all kinds of conversations. Two sets of eyes make a brief eye contact, That lingers, But unlike chick-let movies, Time doesn't pause and the earth doesn't stop rotating and butterflies don't flutter gently in thier stomachs. Two sets of lips say familiar words that feel foreign, Unlike the secrets they once shared and the kisses they once stole, All words stop at Hello. Two sets of limbs once intertwined with the promise of forever, Now wave awkwardly at each other, Not daring to do more than that. Two bodies keeping the right distance of strangers, Not daring to inch closer, Not even an inch , Fearing the overwhelming surge of wanting to be closer than t...

I feel this sadness like a lump in my throat. Like a veil draped over my head, covering my face, not letting me see anything good. Some times I find the willpower to fight it. Most days I don't. It is too much it is too much it is too much. There is no way my body can handle it or kick it out of my system. This sadness is a parasite, it managed to camouflage itself past my immune system, rendering me defenseless against it. I can feel it in my heart, the poisoned Ivy latched on it, attached to my veins and arteries. I am becoming it. I tried resisting it, but I wasn't aware of my weakness until I came across it. At first I thought it was better than the numbness, I thought this was proof that I am still capable of feeling something. Little did I know the magnitude of these tsunamis, little did I care back then. But now I pray every night for it to leave me. I want to be normal, I want to feel normal. What do normal people when they have an excess of emotions, of deep co...

I am at the front door holding the key of the apartment in my hand. I can feel the cold metal pressed against my skin. If I unlock this door I'll be home. Alone. Again. My hand is trembling, it is shaking.... Inside this place every inch is familiar, every corner is memorized, every thing is still and dull and lonesome. Even my guests room is disappointed with the lack of company. If I get inside I will be alone. Again. With no one but my self up against all my poisonous thoughts. The fire squad. Every thought is bullet. A bullet that doesn't necessarily hit me but it definitely deafens me and I don't get a chance to recover from the chaos to be shoot at with another bullet again. Sometimes they do hit me and I just watch myself bleed and I wish if I die then but I don't. In the safety of darkness, they creep up on my skin, the false sense of safety keeps me occupied. I am safe. I am alone and I am safe. But I am not. I know I am not. Theses thoughts don't p...

I have always wondered, what is the worst of human emotions ? I thought about it a lot before I realised that the answer is so obvious, the worst feeling a person could feel is loneliness.  Especially the an unyielding constant kind, the persistent kind, the one tugging at your selves, an ever present reminder of all the things you want and can't have, your longing for human connection, your longing to belong, your essential need to give, to need and to be needed just the same. It is absolutely the worst, because it induces rage and sadness and all kinds of awful feelings, it brings out your bitterness and envy, and to top it all, it makes you feel worthless, maybe they are right, maybe something is wrong with you, maybe you don't deserve it, maybe you are so screwed up, and all these questions well up to the surface, they punch you in the heart without mercy, and as much as you try to neglect them and brush them, the voices in your head will whisper them to you so often that ...

I have ten fingers, and ten toes. I have nine t-shirts, eight pairs of shoes, seven trousers and six friends, I have five pens and four limbs, I have three siblings, I have two kidneys, two lungs, two ears, two eyes, I have one mouth, one heart, one brain, and infinite words, infinite thoughts. these are the only things I am sure of today. I am sure of facts and facts only. of simple profound factual things, like the rising sun and the chirping birds outside, I am sure of the traffic and the polluted air and the couple arguing next door, I am sure of things that I can see, hear or smell, I am sure that the speed of light is still the same and that the Earth is still rotating around the sun, around itself. But, what I am not sure of is the real problem here, I am not sure of how I like my tea anymore, or if I even like it to begin with. I am not sure about the clear sky because there is still a possibility that it might rain, I am not sure I want what I want, feel what I feel ...