Mis-

erable.

In dire need of an appointment with coffee, solitude, and my sketch book. Let’s be honest, we all have negative thoughts at times, and sometimes, deep dark ones that are almost or quite so evil. Be it in a fit, or whilst sipping a cup of Americano, or taking the un-promising promises in puffs and sticks.

The past three days or so have been nothing but a living hell, and quite the opposite of the ideal for the both of us. I don’t think i will die, as much as smothering as it is.

What do you do when a dark thought smogs your train of thoughts?

Frankly speaking, I try as hard as i can to cast them away, as far into the ocean like skipping pebbles and hope best that they do not surface again. But there are times when the thought is stubborn, it sticks around like tar and nicotine in a chain smoker’s lungs. Thick as green phlegm, and quite so irksome. That’s where the dilemma steps in: having to deal with these thoughts. It is draining and churns negativity within, being a magnet for negative karma, which will ultimately only bring harm to yourself.

In The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, Christopher tries to break information down into what is able to rationalise; logic, and comprehend. Am I autistic or of special needs? No, I am not.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder – my ass. It makes us comfortable in our sofa cuddling with solitude and the heart grows fonder towards individualism.

A change in order, in lifestyle, in habits – scrambles the configuration of my mind. I am baffled. Perplexed, because I now have to think twice about where i can retreat to in times of stifle and strangulation. My 2amthoughts, art jamming, Skype calls that keeps me in touch with my close friends (who are, ironically, overseas and miles distant away). Music aloud, dancing to solitude, serenading in Sleeping at Last, Gregory Alan Isakov, OMAM, Kodaline and Benjamin Francis Leftwich. What keeps me most alive is immediately unplugged – it almost feels like euthanasia; only, involuntarily having someone pull it. Is it murder? Figuratively, yes. The crime scene – my once-safe haven. Literally, it is not – because the person in question right here is my sibling whom is supposedly responsible of wellbeing and maturity. Is it intentional? Perhaps not, but the damage is always going to be there.

But you won’t ever forget how they made you feel, would you?

 

 

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