Dedicated to the one who is my diary,
For when with you, I don’t require one to write.
Confessions of a Diary
Broken heart, bundle of indecisive actions, promulgation of stuttering letters, sporadic fits, sabotaged desires. I have seen it all. It is as if I live with this sense of impending anxiety, the catastrophe of sorts, the constant desire to escape..
I feel I live with a heaviness that is not mine. Why? What does that mean? Or is it mine?
How do I become a direct derivant of that pain, anxiety and helplessness?
Does it induce peaceful sleep after it is all relieved on me?
I can’t sleep.
Even that silence is haunting.
I derive pleasure out of pain. Self-assaulted injury.
Pain that is not mine, still mine.
Mortgaged something. Not mine, still mine.
Am I dying?
Of what?
Yours burdened
Diary