Do I feel sad for the days, I haven’t lived enough.
Or do I feel sad for the moments, I haven’t cherished thoroughly.
I do talk, nowadays. But, now my talks lack content and nectar, they are bereft of the essence of life.
I’m retrieving myself into a coccoon, which is made up of the very fabric of my fear and consciousness. By this, I’m not questioning the way introverts spend their lives ; just it scares me. What if I’m not, and becoming one. What if deep down I have this urge to seek help but whenever I reconsider, I give up, not seeing anyone in near sight .
Somedays I realize, that all days are like this. Not getting any better with the passing time.
I feel and sympathize for myself, but have lost the human ability to empathize. I’m so self absorbed in my own emotions that, I’m drowning in it.
Sometimes I wish to run away to someplace nice to fill that void I have been feeling, for God only knows how long.
I’m striving for meaning, which can validate my existence so far and give me a reason to live for so many years till I reach my doomsday.
Things which can enrich and rejuvenate that tired soul which is just done existing. I need that fire, not just a spark sizzling through my soul.
Sometimes, existing can be exhausting but living is never, because it has meaning which peddles your life forward.
I have learned that there are things which are just not meant for me.
They do not add up to my life, my joy, my idea of life, irrespective of the degree of relevance they have in other’s life.
I feel intimidated by my own existence.
I feel fearful of what resides in me, particularly my thought cascade.
I try but often fail to put a stop to this cascade.