nights are for artists

The audacity of humans to blame the fates, when they have known the end since the beginning.

If I was able to write the way I think, will I be free from my own thoughts? From the thoughts that usually suffocate me? Will I be able to breathe more calmly? Will I be able to breathe then?

And what do you call the suffocating war that's going on and on in your head? When everything around you is peace, but it's your mind, that's a mess. There's nothing wrong, nothing sad, yet you are suffering in silence. How do I explain this feeling that my heart's racing, and it's not okay, how do i explain the uncertainty I am feeling? What to tell anyone? Whom to tell? How to stop? What to do?

And now I am crying, not for anyone, but for myself. How easily, how stupidity i kneel for the people I love. How deeply I feel, how madly I fall. Seeing myself drop my self respect to such a point, for such people who would not even bend for me. It's so hurting, so heartbreaking.

The intimacy, to want to make an eye contact but never being able to maintain it, of you telling me about your favourite song and me listening to it on repeat, of listening to you talk about random things after a tiring day, of talking to you for hours and still thinking of you the next minute you leave, of all those little habits of you, that make you, you. And me, just watching and adoring them.

First i overshare, then i overthink. Then, i overshare what I was overthinking, then again I overthink why I overshared what I overthought.

I drank for the first time in my life. And realised I was never actually alive. I was always drunk in reality where I would pretend. I was always drunk, in the true world, in the expectations, in the hopelessness, in the self doubt, in the insecurities. Then, I drank, i felt free, so helpless and uncontrollable and yet so true to my own self.