There are many sorts of feelings in our life.
The solitude in rejection,
The brutality of deceit,
The desperation while drowning,
The nothingness in sinking.
But depression is not a feeling.
Depression is oblivion.
9 cups of black coffee, and infinite appetite yearning for more.
No milk no bread from last night but the vacuum inside fills me to the throat.
The cuts on my right thigh never heals, but the stinking blood sticks sealing the open eyed wounds from the light waiting to reach it.
But then the light is exactly which my flesh craves for.
It’s been 3.5 years , I have changed 4 cities.
But life seems handcuffed to some stagnant random second on a hypothetical clock whose 12 o’clock is marked apocalypse.
You can find me wound up at the corner of a dark room, mostly behind the bed;
Like spider cobwebs and forgotten childhood albums.
Or sipping tea in deserted libraries, scribbling remorseful naive words in an incomprehensible font.
The synchronous notes of classical music rounds off a little of my asynchronousity.
And cynical poetry;most of my arrhymticity.
I find more solace in the arms of loneliness than in human hearts. For those promise to love like sun and moon, but lack to acknowledge, that even the sunlight will extinguish with time and moon will lapse under its burden of craters.
They endorse their intensities of simplicity to each other, but have their own preferences of skin complexions and surnames.
They have made relationships a boundless restriction in the name of being social epitomes of freewill.
Prayers are mockery to me.
Its like feeding milk to a corpse and expecting it recovers from death.
I never wait to fill wounds.
If not flesh and skin, I fill them with medicines, mud, cosmetic and other people’s wounds.
But the patchwork on satin will always let it be ugly.
The ones who love me are tired of how no fragrance smells sweet to me, how no cuisine has enough salt.
Also I keep away from the ones I love. For I am too filled with demons to make space for them.
And well, u know, who would like to kiss someone who smells of alcohol?
Despite of the negative gravity of events passing, I have amusingly never longed to not live.
The blades piercing my thighs and arms have never lingered around my neck for the one last cut.
Then comes the Albert Camus dilemma “Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee”?
And then I sit downing cups of coffee and counting every person who would die too, if I kill myself, since I belong to so many.
Also, even if I kill myself now, isn’t it already too late?
I tie myself to stuff. Not people.
To my diary, my garden, my gym, my library, my home.
I learn to live like animals do.
Despite of them being animals.
“But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself”.
So I anyhow remain.
Only for my existence to act as a rebellion.
You can’t kill me, I have died thousand times.
I will survive; and let me tell u, I will be so kind to you, that you will be compelled to let me live.
My humour will never let you know the storm I have been through.
I will be your Robbin Williams. Only that, I am never leaving you.