INSIGNIFICANT TALES...

Isn't heaviness and weightlessness exact same thing?

People don't open up to others cause they think they won't understand. But it is only when they open up, others start understanding, and misunderstanding.

One of these days, she wrote a memo in her dairy-

"Often, I feel being pressured by heaviness, one that doesn't let your feet thrust into already pulverised ground and yet doesn't let you hold yourself upright. But it seems so weightless when I try to reach it, it feels like it's empty-dead space, and yet so lead-footed.

That heaviness-the one that crippled me to my bones, then succoured me to recuperate-it was just like a water-loaded thundercloud bolting above me; one time I'd find myself drowning, the other time I'd feel myself drenched.
Always in between this and that.
I should've been fortunate to have been subsisting miles away from both extremes, but how unfortunate! I can't live, I can't die-without pressure, without enduring this grave hollowness inside of me.
I just can't...

There's a time; there are days-the one day, in a few-when I see no difference in darkness and myself-my dark inner self.
But then there's these other few days, when I'm too anxious and fretful and aghast to even hold my head at a minimum angle, uncover the eyeballs, and look straight-eyed into the darkness.
And the way it haunts me; before which I'd stood fearlessly, not anymore. My legs would weaken and lose all its potential to stand proud like a warrior. My heart that never raced, would spin like an unlit orbuculum. Even though I knew that this darkness is just as blinding, I'd counsel myself to keep still, move step at a time, and reach out to my little world, under my bedsheet.

My bedsheet, where I wish to have a peculiar scent, other than mine. And my pillows, where I'd wish to lay my head over and into someone else's arm, laying their head on my pillow, that'd only get soaked otherwise...
And my stories, that mean nothing-absolutely nothing at all-I wonder if there's ever gonna be a single soul to find meaning in them...

It's true that I'm not the kind to socialize easily, but is it true that such socially inactive people never have what they desire?
Is it true, I'd never be able replace my pillows with robust shoulders, that could easily bear the weight of my poignant tear-fall and cherish my snivels until I keep sniffling, until it's over...
Until my eyeballs bear no more tears to shed, my throat has no more voice to bawl, and my face has no more expressions to make-until I'm completely exhausted and done-is it true?

It lets me down, just this petty sight of myself sitting alone, with curtains covered till the brim, leaving no void for light-ray to enter; writing on my own, for my own self to read it, wishfully thinking someone else may look out for me and go out of their way to find what's locked with countless number of keys within my chest-core, and liberating me from that thundercloud, forever and evermore.

I'm just gonna let it go, all of this... since there lies no point in my futile wishes and waste thoughts. Cause just after this moment, when I shut the book, everything will go back to where it started."

People try to open up to others but what if others never existed to begin with...?