Of monsters

There are some nights where the silence is a fantastic companion – being alone, and all. And then there are some where the silence is a chaotic mess – where there’s so many thoughts racing through you: like
Wolves / Tearing into me / Without teeth

Last night when the pain was being a bitch i took out Elisa’s birthday message to read again, for the nth time. And then I didn’t know what to make out of it: whether to be happy, or to be sad. I think the latter got the better out of it, though. Somewhere along the pieces of photos whose words were embedded on it all started becoming a blur, and then suddenly it feels like I dread turning 21, all over again. This weird whirling mess. As if, in growing up there’s no room for mistakes, no allowance for days to breathe or days to spare, and we are always – always rushing and running for thing after thing.

Physical pain is real – yet surreal, because the pain within is so much more vivid: and it is our own misery we imprison our minds within – to which, my own misery is my disability in being overly attached and inability to be detached. It feels very much like a curse, and it is approaching a state where there is but one solution – to forcibly yank attachment from its attachment to everything else and thus achieve detachment.

It seemed to me the way it must feel to people who cut themselves on purpose. Not pretty, but clean. Not good, but void of regret. I was trying to heal. Trying to get the bad out of my system so I could be good again. To cure me of myself.


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