Some days, maybe a week – full of silence.

Is that too much to ask for?

Point! Why do I even ask?

Lights make me see the darkness, water burns my throat and I’m sure silence will hurt my ears. That’s way too surfacial anyway.

I have been deteriorating and I don’t even want to stop it. Because I’m just a talker? Nah neppie nip.

I want to feel what a six years old feel. That’s not completely possible but I can try. I know too many things to be a six years old again.

Knowing hurts but Ignorance causes me blisters. These things are all so vague.

As I reflect upon the place where I live, I find it to be a little insensitive to anything. I can’t help but wonder about self worth shits implicated upon us. What are we worth? Just a pile of flesh and water – a little too scarlet to not exist.

Vehicles cause me nausea. Pardon the last line, I’m a fool. I see the world as it is and it brings me peace.

‘As it is’ – this already sounds like a cliche. Look around. The fuck we discovered things to make life easier. Everyone wishes to slit their wrists anytime soon. I can already smell a pile of dead bodies. But the machines endure. They incinerate the bodies and yell, “Here we declare, the words that closely resembles humane to be dead.”

The word ‘humanity’ starts to get underlined with red ever-after. Serves you right motherfuckers!

But then, there is music. I think a good music is better than love.

You don’t expect a soulful music to like you back, it doesn’t even know that it’s redefining your life, giving you a slightest of reasons for not slitting your wrist, at least for that day.

It’s a kind of risk-less devotion. Now I sound barbaric. But am I?

I cry before sleep everyday. Sometimes, for the trees they cut down to make contract papers.

Other times for an artist who can’t differentiate whether it’s the lyrics or the beats that make people cry.

Most of the times for being hard upon myself.

All these people around, are they real?

I don’t find them true to oneself. Neither am I. Bunch of lies; I call my life.

Had I been brave, I would have written every truth that troubles me. But what good that does?

For me, self loathing is a bit better than mass scorn. Back to people I jump. I feel like they are running for something, that same something which I am lazily waiting for. But are they, or me, or you running for something? Running away from something? The truth, for instance?

I don’t know, I’ve hurt my head already.

At some point, I feel like slapping myself. Especially when I try to fit in the crowd with puns.

I don’t know if we really need human connections to survive. Maybe we need to tell somebody what we’re doing and that somebody will feel privileged to be entrusted to have been shared this with.

Is this the whole point of co-existence? We have even rated and priced these emotion dumping sites. We connect to a human with an equivalent rating and dump our desperate lies.

Yeah, life is a waste of time.

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