Oblivion!

 I am never going to forget the Nepal trip coming from Boston. Being discharged, although it wasn't for a big time of medical admission, fairly 12 hours, and then sitting on a plane with excruciating headache telling myself it's going to be okay. Man, how comfortable I have gotten in this. Is this strength or cowardice? To be so comfortable in telling lies to myself, but I know that I can take it. Even if it means asking for electrolytes on the plane and air hostess asking me if I need a doctor two hours later, I am comfortable in this. I am taking everything as something that's normal and it worries me because it's not and one day when it reaches something huge, there's going to be no one and nothing for me to hold onto because I have so much solace in it. It will feel like just an extension, and that haunts me. I am capable of traveling alone, I want to because I know I can seek help from strangers, and they are kind. Human race isn't as unkind as people gener...

Sometimes you know, there is this part of me which just wants to be happy and have fun, but then I realize those moments of fun for me are nothing but me analyzing the world, different aspects of it, finding solace in apprehensions that others might not entirely get and all in all becoming a liability to myself because I am too harsh to live a life of happiness within myself. I am just a nobody to me, and I will always be a nobody to me no matter how I live or what I choose to do because this is the reality I have made for myself and I am incredibly insisting on being a being in my vicious cycle of finding a momentum in life that I no longer have the will or the choice to. You see, I grew up romanticizing my sadness, I grew up thriving in it, to me, happiness is like a horizon, its always near but never attainable. The farther I go and the more I live, I realize that this count of mine which I inherently enjoy just by being a person who valued dignity and values and intelligence over h...

 There is pain inside me which feels so real, more real than what I will ever be. In the depth of nothingness, it stems from tiny affirmations of my will to live; my will to exist. I cannot be this figure of condemnation for me, and yet I am. I lie and lie and lie, to myself, to people I love (barely) that this pain means something, while in reality it smothers me every night as I stand in the middle of the room with lights as bright as the sun in my crumpled dress with no awake human at sight. I lie that I am okay, I smile, I laugh, because I cannot do anything else.  It’s a different kind of pain-inability. It is toxic; it is mundane. A fear of letting go subsides in me as I think of all the things I want to do, this hope of being a human character who feels deeply is taking my life away, and I am suffocated in it. It feels like standing on the beach nude basking in the sun letting people peek at your vulnerability. The exposed skin of my conscience which burns in the sunris...