It started to get hurt a little. My heart which was cold, impersonal had only taken the matter of pumping the red hot blood to my entire body in its hand is now knows how to mourn and is familiar with the feeling of being left miserable from time to time. When it’s in its pensive state people would assume and so likely conclude that I am spacing out.
People no longer understand me even when I say it in the same language which I’ve been speaking for the past two decades. Was it the emotions I am trying to show that is hard to fathom or is it my vocabulary that is outdated? With each moon settling and the sun rising I came to believe even though it is crestfallen I have become someone that no one could ever see what lies inside of me. That being said, I somewhere unwittingly gave up on untangling my thoughts thereby, eventually leaving the idea of crafting beautifully my cogitations to present myself less mysteriously for my loved ones to interpret it readily.
No descriptions of the humans nor the characters from the book come close to who I am now. Neither the zodiac signs nor the tarot cards can portray my ego fairly in their readings. I am a forgotten book. closed and covered in dust. I no longer just display my fondness for a character from any drama or book by cultivating its characteristics into mine. Instead, I begin to fail on multiple occasions to draw the answer for my liking towards them. May be they resemble me or I want to be them. The high tides of thoughts come and take away my peace with them. Never left any solutions but only brought new worries.
A lot started residing inside the chambers of my heart and my brain which I suppose should be called as the emotions. They stir me up crazily and as strong as the heavy storm mercilessly pulling out the trees from the soil. And when it settles, the leftover parts of all scattered here and there gradually sink without causing any pain and make themselves home again. Perhaps, I might have to go on live with them like this every day.
Like this again every day I try to find amusement in counting the stars rather than finding myself in the bright yet busy world. Too exhausted to clean the pile of feelings growing inside of me. The sunlight in the mornings reaching me from the gaps of my window no longer give the same warmth to me. Yet I get up since the story didn’t end. Yet I sit up to see what more this world has in its little basket to surprise me more. Here I await not so hopefully but forcefully to embrace the worsts and bests from my every end.