I hate this sense of helplessness. You know, that feeling of not knowing. There were so many things I could do, so many places, but I keep seeking - for I don't know what.
It was easy to feel the way I did. But then, what stops them? There are so many things I could erase off - but the ones that stay - they are so painful, etched within.
My need to be acknowledged - I don't need to do any thinking to know where it stems from. Who would know it, who could let me get away from it? Don't only sympathize. And THAT, I don't want. I wish someone knew. I wish there was hope to move on...without being tied to the mundane thoughts.
I am so dumb to believe all this - how difficult is it really? To know that this is not real. It is just what it is - the way it is, with everyone. But then, there are times, when I am confused, and then I am told - it's different, with you. What does that mean? But the wall - that needs to be broken down, becomes stronger. I wish I could just be held, and told once, meaningfully - there is someone who loves you, there is someone who really thinks that you matter, there is someone who knows that you need to be cared for too, there is someone who could make you feel happy!
A friend said, I write honestly - all she sees are my words. I wish I could open up and show my self - the need to be real - it is such a dilemma. People act so well - to fit in. What are misfits then?
I sound so doped to myself - all I am doing is let my thoughts flow, just like the tears from my eyes now. I wish blogs would smudge the way diaries did...I wish I could read back all my diary posts, and post some good ones here - maybe I should. What if I find some old writing, smudged with tears? What an eventful life!
Time to sleep - the thoughts are floating about - not knowing where to park. I have been thinking of dead poets for some time now. Like Plath, she had two lovely children, and a husband. She still ended life because she had an extreme need for love, and life was not being fair. I have only been thinking of dead poets. The extreme need to be real - like Madhavikutty - how innocent was she when I met her. Didn't she convert because of her need for love...that way, madness is a trait. Isn't it?
Colorful balloons, and a pain shooting from my heel, like sending signals to the universe - it shoots to my brain. Lands somewhere where I have used rope to tie my colorful balloons (think movie "Up"). Ok, yes. I need to go sleep. This is good.
I feel exhausted. Parting words:
It was easy to feel the way I did. But then, what stops them? There are so many things I could erase off - but the ones that stay - they are so painful, etched within.
My need to be acknowledged - I don't need to do any thinking to know where it stems from. Who would know it, who could let me get away from it? Don't only sympathize. And THAT, I don't want. I wish someone knew. I wish there was hope to move on...without being tied to the mundane thoughts.
I am so dumb to believe all this - how difficult is it really? To know that this is not real. It is just what it is - the way it is, with everyone. But then, there are times, when I am confused, and then I am told - it's different, with you. What does that mean? But the wall - that needs to be broken down, becomes stronger. I wish I could just be held, and told once, meaningfully - there is someone who loves you, there is someone who really thinks that you matter, there is someone who knows that you need to be cared for too, there is someone who could make you feel happy!
A friend said, I write honestly - all she sees are my words. I wish I could open up and show my self - the need to be real - it is such a dilemma. People act so well - to fit in. What are misfits then?
I sound so doped to myself - all I am doing is let my thoughts flow, just like the tears from my eyes now. I wish blogs would smudge the way diaries did...I wish I could read back all my diary posts, and post some good ones here - maybe I should. What if I find some old writing, smudged with tears? What an eventful life!
Time to sleep - the thoughts are floating about - not knowing where to park. I have been thinking of dead poets for some time now. Like Plath, she had two lovely children, and a husband. She still ended life because she had an extreme need for love, and life was not being fair. I have only been thinking of dead poets. The extreme need to be real - like Madhavikutty - how innocent was she when I met her. Didn't she convert because of her need for love...that way, madness is a trait. Isn't it?
Colorful balloons, and a pain shooting from my heel, like sending signals to the universe - it shoots to my brain. Lands somewhere where I have used rope to tie my colorful balloons (think movie "Up"). Ok, yes. I need to go sleep. This is good.
I feel exhausted. Parting words:
Between your love, and lovelessness,
your closeness and your distance,
there is me.
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