There is a strange weight prowling inside my body. An agonizing suffocation of a feeling that is left untold. It was there for years- shut down in a remote corner of my heart. I tried to kill this cursed feeling, devastate it, murder it but it each time it emerges like an almighty angel.
We are all broken, that’s how the light gets in— Ernest Hemingway
I say it’s my inspiration- my muses, that makes me neurotic and help me down in work. This thought comforts me. But how do I say that this damned state is wretched and heartless- reminding me of the things I never had, the person I never had.
Coming back each night with its misery and sadness
My lifelong efforts haven’t been successful in repressing it as it came back last night and said, ‘Hey it’s you! I’m not only inside you but I’m you!’