It's a common saying that everything happens for the best. I have been a believer of this for the longest time ever since I've read about it in stories and experienced it firsthand. But sometimes I wonder, is it really what happens or is it something I convince myself to make sure that my belief system remains validated?
Lately, I have been wrapped up in a flurry of emotions. Happy, sad, lonely, confused, excited and a lot more overwhelmed.
Maybe it's just one of those days, or maybe it has been this way for a long time but was too repressed to make it to the surface. I don't know. Could be several reasons, could be none.
Some days are enthusiastic. The days where I might be falling down a cliff but screaming with pleasure on the way down. Everything makes sense and everything makes me happy and I might even be enjoying my life.
Other days I feel like I'm a snake trapped in a glass exhibit with all eyes on me - daring me, taunting me to do something, anything as long as it doesn't harm them. When I open my mouth to express my plight, about how all of this is so wrong and will someone just get me out of this place- they look at me and all they do is laugh and clap at my misery, albeit unknowingly, for the glass doesn't allow them to hear, just see. They see me as I am but interpret me however they want to. I wish I could break out of the glass and make all the noise I can, say out loud to anyone who would listen, that "No! I am not an object to be monitored. Just let me be how I am supposed to be. Set me free!" but all they can view is my mouth open and close, again and again. No screams are heard, no emotions are deciphered, just a faceless void where existence is static.
The happy days are fine. But the others, not so much. You want to cry and you want to talk except words are not enough to explain the turmoil you find yourself in. When you do gather the words, you have no one to talk to, no one to confide into, you are all alone in the world with the thoughts you can hardly keep at bay.
So I busy myself with any work I can find. If not work, hours and hours of sleep over the limit. The less time to think, the better it is, right?
A healthy coping mechanism? Barely. But does it work? Absolutely.
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Letters, Poetry and Life.
PoesieA bunch of unsent letters, A bunch of forgotten poetry and lots of random thoughts just waiting to be penned down- finally spilt when fiction met reality.
