Wilted Words

I know what is going to happen, It plays in my head Like a movie clip stuck on repeat,  I tell myself that I know what's going to happen before it does, With the smugness and pretentiousness of a fortune teller who is just good at reading people. I swear I know the exact arrangement of words you'll use, I can see the posture of your body as you stand across the room, creating as much space between us as possible, I can see the way your lips move as you say the sentence that will flip my world upside down like pancakes of a Sunday's breakfast. Despite that, I choose to tighten the blindfold around my eyes. I pretend I can't tell that the house is on fire. I pretend that I can't smell the smoke, that the heat from the flames isn't burning me,  I choose to ignore the crumbling building crashing down at my feet, I inhale the ashes until I fill my lungs.  Denial is my feeble shield against the cruelty of reality. Every time, I chose to ignore that silence...

I want to talk about my sadness. But my sadness is a rude distant relative that has no business in my house, yet insists on staying and interfering with every small detail of my life. My sadness is a predator that has claimed me as a prey, a malicious vicious killer that hunts for the fun of the chase, and when I finally landed in its clutches it toyed with me, tossing me around, yawning, bored at my lack of resistance. My sadness is the clique of girls who bullied me through elementary school, middle school, high school and when I run into them somewhere a few years later I greet them casually because I am a grown up and I am mature and I have put it all behind me, pretending they weren't one of the reasons I am mesirable. My sadness is a grave I dug with my bare hands in a cold hard ground of a wasteland to bury it but instead I fell into it, and got buried where there is no tombstone for recognition. My sadness is treacherous and cruel, sometimes it allows me to go about...

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...

fear, is a small creature, A parasite, living off your hopes, crippling you, an ever persistent voice in your head, it's a sly cunning being too, an illusive being, one that will mimic your own voice, and whisper all kind of unkind things to you. I know you are trying to run away, to turn your head and pretend that you don't see it hovering over your head, you try to cover your ears when it talks, to muffle its voice but that rarely helps. you can pretend and pretend but it will always be there, and the worst of them all is the fear of not being good enough, the fear that you're unworthy of what you want, This voice will convince you that it is easier to give up it is easier to not try to begin with. fear, is being locked in a prison of your own making with the keys a few inches away from you but still you won't reach for it. it is the constant reminder of how wrong things could go, it is the fuel for your cowardice. and I am not blaming you here, I under...

I was a quiet child, but I had a beautiful singing voice, Or so I believed. My voice was soft, and my words were shy like a five years old kid hiding behind her mother and clutching her elbow at first day of school, I couldn't hit high notes and my vocal range had limitations but that never stopped me, At least I had rhythm and I memorised lyrics easily, I grew up, and voice submerged beneath all the insecurities, I am more quiet and I no longer believe that my voice is beautiful, And my words, My words almost never mean what I want to say, They are deceiving, Every time I speak they promise that this time they're going to come out exactly as I mean them but they don't, They throw me under the big yellow bus, They cluster in my throat and push other words out, They ring the doorbell and run fast and I get caught, They never call for truce, So I decided to become silent, I nod yes, I shake my head no, I say the bare minimum to communicate, When the waiters...

The world blurs and melts, indicating the start of the ending, the world falls into mass chaos, after slowly dripping into an oozy thick black deliquescent substance, slipping through my own fingers, liquid suffering covering my hands, guilt..  for all the things I am feeling, for all the things I am not, for all the skeletons hanged in my closet, for all the hostages of secrets, terrified and loud in spite of how many times I stifle their noises. for all the dead thoughts, stagnant and sordid in spite of being buried miles within me. I have got miles and miles of skin, but it's transparent windopane, and there is no point of hiding that circus of crazed mess, it's on full display.  it's my shadow of an entourage, it's everything I am, it's everything I am not. it's the things I fear, it's my  loneliness  solitude, I am losing my mind in this murky place, I am on my way I am lost.  with no destination, no direction, I am being devoured by...