No clothes in the house for fags

There is something addictive about suffering alone and keeping things to oneself.  It starts with a realisation, which moulds into pain and then anger. Suddenly past actions become mistakes, even those which you took with great care and love. You want to lash out on someone or something without the feel of regret that has started to haunt you.  And then there are the ethics, morals and values around you causing the social pressure to give out only ‘the good’. This eventually, brings into existence the conflicted self. The self who keeps turmoil inside to give off only the accepted. You start to fall for that self, thinking that's the only choice left. You feel possessive about your pain. You hold back from sharing it, fearing it won't be yours anymore. After a while, pain is the only emotion that reaches your heart. You end up searching for it everywhere. You become more receptive towards others’ pain and suffering. You can connect with people but only through all the wrong emotions. You start to search it in everyone you meet, ending up with brittle or dysfunctional relationships. And then you realise that life has broken you more than you thought. Again another realisation. You were trying to mend your broken heart losing your mind midway. And now you don't have any other choice than to go back to the self which started it all. The most dangerous journey one can take. Because it's routed backwards.

Boss couldn’t let anyone know how much of a slut he was, but he never turned down Master’s command