Am plunged into a parched primeval sadness. Desert of dreariness is back with a renewed horror of alone-ness. Am also looking forward to it. For that is how we are constituted in essence. The heart can seek for much, but the mind protests. The mind shouts out its solitude. My heart is a joke, I don't know even now-why it beats so hard and so much. But lately, it's almost stopped. Veins running dry. Horror. Renewed horror of that essential aloneness.
Verbosity or circumspect clarity bore me. I feel a bit sick all the time. I feel like shouting about the nothingness from rooftops. The soul has drained out from the body, it's been three years and I can't even study for exams any more. It's a bit strange, I'm not good at this.
November is so far away, but I felt Novemberish a few moments back. Orange, oblique and not quite trusting. Suspicious, sad, inarticulate. Disgust, despair, drama.
I wish I could change.
Sometimes I just wish I would allow myself to be less hurt at times. This is pure sado-masochism. I hate it, I hate not being able to love, I hate the indifference and the anger, I dislike the gloom and dreariness. I want excitement, and a White Knight and Wonderland. At least, in a dream. I hate reality.
But I hate appearances even more.
Hypocrisy, lies, shallowness, weakness, boredom, ennui, wretchedness.
I don'know whether I really want it but
I am alone.