Writing is tough. Writing a blog with this crushing liability to update it at regular intervals is tougher. It’s like your own escape has imprisoned you, like the drug that doesn’t send ecstasy through your veins anymore, but you cannot shove the habit away, like a hobby that has become a duty, a reationship that has become a noose. I thought I’d write, but…..let it be.
I run away – that’s the worst thing about me. I figured it out long ago, but accepting the fact that I’m a coward was not acceptable for me. I’d come with justifications and then my actions seemed to make sense, and I made myself believe that I didn’t run away from the problem, but I chose better options. Life then became all about finding an easier way to live. Free of risk – drab, monotonous and at equilibrium. I thought equilibrium meant peace. I was wrong. I transformed into someone who’d lack the courage to face a situation and make good choices. That’s me now – lost and defeated. I don’t even desire to fight, my eyes do not light up and my heart is just full of cholesterol. And I’m dying.
I’m the most pessimistic person I’ve ever known. I don’t know why, but it feels like the open sky above me was just an illusion, and as it vanished, I find myself trapped in a catacomb, tied and muffled.
I think I’ve lost something forever. I don’t know what, but I can feel that heavy hole in my chest, the small missing piece. And it makes me sad.