Since when did writing get so easy? I asked myself for days, penning down thoughts, explicitly expressing the inexpressible. Days under the roof and nights under the stars were barely enough to scratch the surface of my mind; the depths remain unexplored and emotions, uncanny. I admit, I was crazy enough to talk to walls, waiting for an answer but what am I to do? I seek solitude.
They keep asking me for answers, wait for responses. How do I give you what I myself lack? The nails that scratch my skin have no sense of touch; they’ve endured persistent bites of anxiety. I wish I were that resilient. Now I walk the streets that I’ve always known, in the shoes I’ve always worn but what I always had elude me; those words, those feelings, the tears and cries;