rant-1


I looked yonder, I looked away.
Far into the darkness I looked far, further away.
No…why am I even trying the words will not rhyme. Wasn’t I told before that there is no music left?
There is so much that I have to tell. It is not about a broken heart, it has been broken for eons now. It is like that unknown, unwanted part of me that invariably sticks to me all the time. I cannot put my finger on to it as of now. I can’t at all. But there is something that has been harrowing onto me.
I don’t have sleepless nights anymore I keep busy all the time. I want to shy away, get away run away. It is not about things that bother me. it is me.
There is this part of me that hates me. I hate the eyes, the skin the smile. I hate it more because it is pretty. I don’t like pretty anymore.
I see no purpose of pretty. There is putrid black in it.  Like a mask that I invariably, inexplicably keep wearing.
 My only hint of salvaging me from the darkness from total, ineffable stupor, is something that I have let go off.
 *I took the cure for happiness* where do I go from here?
Mornings turn into nights and make complete days that turn into weeks and months. There is total mayhem, total anarchy during the days. I am a completely different person; probably that is why I should steer clear of the nights. It is the darkness and the distant noise that reminisces of the chaos of the day, in which I come face to face with something that looks foreign to me, something that was a part of me for longer than I can imagine. I have in front of me, a mirage of me from a not too distant past, looking out of the window with mist laden eyes but a smile on her face. Where to? Why to? When and how? I have a thousand questions but I cannot frame them. I cannot live with someone else’s diktat governing it.  
A thousand syllables make my entire day, the night falls amid silence. A thread that entwined the melody of a hopeful future now lies knotted inside a case.
There are a thousand rants and a thousand odes to that likeness of mine. I am so busy feeling sorry and sighing that I have lost track of the hurt. I have built it up so much in the system that I wake up every morning with that exact same thought.
No I don’t need help I can help myself. I am not asking for anything.
I am asking for a hug, I am asking for human emotion, I am asking for a human touch.
I am asking for reality, someplace where I don’t have to fake, where there is no room for lies.
I have no reason to be sorry, and that makes me feel all the more sorry for me. I am not sad, neither depressed. Anyone who knows me in real life cannot make heads and toes of the whole rant and I hate that. I hate that I can fake and convincingly so. I hate that you cannot look into my eyes and say what I am feeling. I wish I wore my emotions on my sleeve so that I did not have to hide behind the wall.
…..

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