hold me back, please?

I am frustrated and cranky. Why wouldn’t I be, anyone living my life would have either escaped or committed suicide. I don’t know which thread is holding me back.

Everyday I jump out of bed, close my bedroom door and dance, I am not really a good dancer or pursing it, I just dance to let the frustration go, let the music take over my senses and eliminate the anger inside me; music therapy.  I dance thinking that I’d be a little more active through the day, a lot less unstable. I fail daily. Once I was done dancing for an hour and was caked with sweat I opened the curtains, it was bloody raining! Lets face it, I love rain in summers, and I’d jump out in it, but in winters it’s just depressing, I want the sun then. The rain just put me in a depressing mood. After my shower the whole house looked awfully dark, it was like evening had come early.

Empty walls that surrounded me seemed like they’d eat me up. I couldn’t read. I had a knot in the pit of my stomach, the awful pain. The nagging started just around that time, and after that, I obviously didnt have a minute to myself till now. I get this dull ache in my head sometimes and I am pretty sure I’ll lose my mind. Maybe I will. Maybe that will bring mercy.

 

Black Background

I’ve always wanted to write journal, but I never did. I’d try, of course, I was always enthusiastic about the privacy. My privacy. So in the end, I’d write one entry or two before I forgot about it. I have several diaries still with the first 3 to 5 pages scribbled with my basic details, they hold memories, how my opinion about myself changes as I grew up. I guess that’s what made me  writer.

It’s nothing like before now. Anyhow, I know, now that people pry. No matter what you do, how much you protect something people still get into your personal belongings. So earlier in I started a journal. It was nothing like the usual. I just took a random diary and dotted my thoughts daily, letting my frustration onto the paper. There were no introductions, no fear of someone reading it because I thought there was an unsaid privacy policy about private stuff. But two days back got upstairs to find it gone. My sister took it saying it was her diary, which it wasn’t. But she hadn’t read it, so I tore out the pages and vowed never to write a journal again.

It’s kinda sad since it was fun. well… there’s joy in being anonymous, a strange mystery in the background. And that’s what I become here, as I open up, unknown, unseen yet familiar.

Wasted

I feel weird. Forgotten and wasted. Like if I fell asleep or go hiding, no one would even notice; no one would bother. And sometimes I feel like doing this very thing, sleeping or going into hiding, so I can escape the unwanted feeling, so that I can get over the clichés of life, so that I can do something other than the same darn routine. I am so sick of life, my life.

Every day is the same, the same excruciating day, the same things being shouted all over again, the same drama unfolding itself, once more. Why? Why am I blamed for something that wasn’t my fault? For something that I haven’t done and will never do! My life is a question, and answers are lost.

Answers haunt me, like realities of life, eating me inside.