I’m back. From what, I don’t know. To where, I don’t know.
Tonight, I’m not writing. I bleed. I shed every tear in form of the words I’ve held inside me. The words that drown me. The words that make me feel so heavy. The weight that I drag on trying to act normal, hoping that nobody will notice. I don’t know whether they do or whether they don’t. It doesn’t matter.
Tonight, I’m bleeding words.
I don’t know how to hold myself from breaking for long. I don’t even know how to fix myself.
I’m my own problem.
Maybe I’m the cure too.
I’m full of confusions; call them paradoxes if you may.
Unknown excites me but scares me too.
The known bores me but comforts me too.
I want love but never accept myself to be worthy of it either.
I give selflessly, without wanting anything in return, but that leaves me empty.
I prefer calmness but the silence kills me.
I feel heavy with the war inside me but empty too.
The mountains that you are carrying, are the ones you were only supposed to climb!
How do I leave them? And what do I leave? They say whenever you go, you are going to be yourself. You can’t escape your own self. Then what do I do?
My mind is killing me. Nothing helps. I try resting, I try working. I try hobbies, I try work. I try being in company, I try being alone. I try having hope but still feel hopeless.
The worst is nobody will ever truly know it. I can explain all I want and they can try to understand every way possible, but the truth is, nobody will ever be able to know this struggle I’m pulling myself through. Atleast trying to. Ot maybe not.
I wish there was some analogy to explain it.
It’s like a water filled vessel is getting heated, people far from it see just the vessel, people near to it can see the steam coming out from the cracks occasionally but its boiling inside. A havoc has been created inside. Nobody can or will see it.
I carry it to wherever I go. I hold on to my pieces as well as to hope. I shatter so frequently these days asking myself and everyone who can hear, “How did I turn into this mess of broken pieces?”
Each shattered piece of me asks me a question, questions I don’t have answers to.
“Where is the person I used to be?” “Is this what I was supposed to become?” “Isn’t this insanity? Or is it just sadness?” “How do I get out of this labyrinth? Straight and fast? Or calm and composed?” “How do escape this?” “Is this even escapable?”
The struggle goes on.
If only I could escape to a place I’d be free from myself; but then I don’t think I’ve been left with much of me either. I lost myself during the war. The war inside my own self.