I tried to jot down some things,
I tried to draw a picture in my own words,
but somehow I could not.
I feel like a musician,
Who wants to play the instrument once again,
Like he used to do in the days before today.
Yet the music, somehow, does not flow well inside his veins,
Or maybe the music is too loud,
distorted,
with all the sensory inputs the musician is getting.
Or it is just silence,
Almost like switching off an amplifier,
where the only auditory inspiration one would get is simply the shallow sound of his breath.
******************************
I think the time of writing the same messages,
over and over again is now gone.
It was all about expressing myself in a particular manner,
the point was never to be understood,
but to make my inner self exposed.
Inner self,
well that what I used to think,
or rather,
what I was made to believe.
All the mumbo jumbo of being myself,
of stripping myself from the masks which I was wearing.
All the advices I sought,
All the questions I asked out there,
just made the inner self which I thought I was,
more in need to express itself.
******************************
We seek help most of the time,
even though many of us hate to admit that.
And once the breaking point is reached,
we emerge battered,
shattered,
all bruised up,
seeking for compassion,
even though many of us hate to admit that.
Some may reach out to others,
only to be bitten once again.
Others reach out for drugs,
just to silence the hysteric screams of sorrow inside.
Medications,
legal or illegal,
just to make us feel better,
with the hope,
even if it is dim,
that one day we will be back on track.
Little do we know however,
that the world wants us to look out more,
to pay more,
more and more.
Nobody ever tells us that by the answers others give us,
are in fact nothing but more questions,
questions with a question mark missing in the end.
Little did I know however,
that the fulfilment which I have sought for so long,
is in fact everywhere,
except in the outside world
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