It’s Time

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It’s time. Like everyday the clock has struck 1. But unlike everyday I cannot sleep.

I am tired, and it was a long day. My eyes feel the burden of hell and my body lifted the sky, my skin has been seared to the sun, yet sleep walks afar, the unknown, the un claimed road. I am running behind it, the faster my gait, the smokier it’s outline gets.

Something is killing me inside. Every inch, every fibre of me can feel it. Did I go wrong somewhere? Did I forget something? I did it all, as scheduled, yet I feel uneasy this time. It’s not the first time, though I am oblivion stricken withal I remember it. Every part, in every way.

I had to save her, but I couldn’t. Again. I failed. Again. She cried. Again. I tried. Again. Then lost. Again. Though she trusted me. Again. And I ran back to hold my loathing shattered pieces together. All over again.

I am tired of it, but I cannot abandon it. I hate it, yet cannot strand it. How can I ever separate my own self from me? Cause she dies everyday, every second, inside of me. She the moment she last breathed in my arms, since the very moment, I was left alone to sail a boat which already had a sinking deck. No island to surround. No destination to swim. Yet every past night I successfully deceived myself to the blinding clarity of moving on and forgetting but all I actually achieved was a hollowed soul, perishing deeper and deeper. Emptying my sordid body.

All I discovered is that forgetting you is like sinking into a void which had nothing but you. No land to step on, no water to quench, no air to suck in, only you.

But today that I learn to allow myself to accept it, accept the burning reality that it was no one else but me, me who did it all. It feels like I am allowing the fire to consume me when locked in a burning house. Like I am no longer desperate to open the windows and jump out. Cause it was me who set the fire after all. But I forgot that if I have to burn the house then I will be burnt inside it, alive. Like the house, you engulfed me inside of you, and I am no longer alive, cause I already died inside of you. I wish I never had let you fall for him and alas, I would have never poisoned you to death.

Silence

I am feeling a not so unfamiliar silence inside me after a very long time. The kind of silence which makes me want to not want anything at all. The silence that needs nothing to be needed. A sudden depth, a void of complete incessant lavish darkness. The kind that needs no one to stay.

I know it’s temporary, though I importune it to stay. It’s probably the repercussion of the reflection of my day. But I don’t want the disinterest, the oblivion and the simmering coldness to set with the sun. The pleasing sounds have become yammerings, yet every shackled fibre of me is discreetly absorbing the sordid inanimate moisture which has strangely astounded my own demented self.

Nothing seems enough. All frays feel futile withal the cause. Everything’s superfluous yet not fulfilling.

I want this influential silence to never break. The void to never end. The pain to never reiterate. The oblivion to never pale.

Argument

A nothing grazing my head. The sound of silence absorbing into my ears. Like buckets full of water, I feel frail and heavy.
The trance of black taking over and feeding over my emotions, digesting my ability think or even feel.
I feel like I am letting go. Running off, everything. The fear of loosing set far, not a shadow to be seen. Just emptiness and the nostalgia of the want of feeling nothing is taking over. Engulfing me as a whole, mouthful.
Thoughts getting paralysed and affection getting choked. Body getting numb and eyelids bearishly heavy.
Words draining off my core, leaving the surface and letting go. Like they never grew on the barren platform.
Don’t know if it’s the same, or the ability to deceive my own self. Not about me, not about nothing but the argument.
The argument between the want of being stranded and the feel of being wanted.
Choice being material, or being eternal. The argument now making my numbness go, unwontedly.
Harder I try, farther I loose,
To the material than eternal. The argument never ending about absolutely nothing I can do.