Rant

This is a rant of a tired, tormented, fucked up mind.

I am sorry for not responding to the most of the texts. Partly, it is because I am told to hear the story I am not interested, after a few formal texts. And partly because I rather feel comfortable without talking.

Life has been quite fucked up and busy lately, mentally and physically. And I have been not able to put my one hundred percent into writing or reading — something that is my better half, or into anything that really matters. Lately, I am not satisfied with what I am writing.

I search for happiness, some days.

I am familiar with the emptiness in my heart that feels so heavy, weighing me down. Saddening. It’s a paradox — how can nothingness drown me? Is it nothingness?

Drowning. Drowned. I am falling apart.

Why? If you ever ask me about it, I will say, the happiest and the saddest story of my life is that she acknowledged my love, but she could never adore it. She saw a cavern of care in my eyes but was always too afraid to dive in.

This is a love story. Almost.

I was her almost. Almost always quiet when she is speaking, almost always on time when we’re heading out for lunch, almost always available for her at 3 AM when she wants to rant, yet I was almost empty. Never enough.

Why did we fall apart? I wonder. Is it my fault? my greatest guilt, even today is not that I couldn’t stay in love, but that I couldn’t find it in me to believe in her love.

I find people to spend time with, I do. And they find me interesting to talk about everything. They are curious to know about what makes me write. What hurt me? This. I hurt myself.

And if I have to do justice to this piece by not flavouring it with fiction, I will admit I seek her in every person I spend time with.

As I scribble away, I imagine warm tears trickling down my cheeks, but I know, I see everything but there is nothing I feel. There are no tears. Words, my words, they are a solace to the world, but empty words to me.

I.
Am.
Sad.
Alone.
Lost.