I am getting tired of this self-imposed restraint. Self-censorship if you may. It's carving a big hole out of me now. A massive abyss, all in black. I couldn't even write poetry anymore! Where is the conviction so strong, forged by sheer will? What happened to it? I seek inside me explanations, try hard to rationalise. But it seems that the farthest I could reach is half-way before floundering, like a flower in early spring, green shoots young reach for light cast by the sun but defeated before fully straightening its back, it's root is too weak to sustain it's strenuous effort. I am simultaneously an old woman and an infant, senile and blank.Things I have known I have forgotten, things I haven't seems to move merrily out of my reach, mocking and enticing at the same time. It's a peculiar mixture of burning curiosity for knowledge and cold disdain for not finding out about it earlier. I have been punishing myself for crimes, atrocities that are purely self-imaginary in nature, with petty feelings as evidence at that! Which results in unbearable contempt for myself manifesting itself in the form of vicious, merciless and relentless waves of attack. I am not able to patch my disordered, disjointed, bleak thoughts together to form coherent, explainable sentences. Eloquence eludes me, I chase it doggedly, to no avail, elegance is both aloof and superior.


I am now devoid of desire.There, it is out there in the open. The vibrancy that before was prevalent is made enfeebled. By what? Rather, it is a question of by which? I don't think I could answer truthfully and still remain whole. In pieces already, to force it would spell annihilation, self-preservation is still my primary instinct being human that I am, damn that.

Neither life, nor death interest me. Nothing does.