The chirp-chirp of birds, and the fluttering of their yellow wings. Wet green grass twinkling with raindrops and little bugs. Bright red gulmohar and the purple blossom tree. They're so pretty. Very, very, pretty. It makes me want to lay in my bed and cry.
Or in the grass, among the damp lines, feeling the wetness. I wish to sleep when the birds dare to chirp-chirp shrilly into my ears. The grass gives me red, blotchy blisters, - itchy and wouldn't go away. And the trees are too much of a work to look at. Too much of an effort to see them in bloom. Too much of an effort to wake up, to walk. It makes me want to lay in my bed and cry.
Now, don't get me wrong. I wanna do all of the above. I want to observe, to play, to sleep, to eat, to walk, to see, to take all that it requires to do so. I want to, so much that even the insignificance of the 'significant' is non-existent to me in this world - that is, my overwhelming desire, to have a fulfilling, mind-soothing day overtakes the longing to be ' seen ' or be regarded with any significance at all, in the world.
And increasingly, I tried to not see the negative facets. Those brought me down. Trapped in that little cellar with reflections spiralling all around - Does it mean I become devoid of attention, worth, or care? Hypocritical coming from a pessimist who makes suicidal ideation jokes religiously about 10 times a day, but, I don't want to see them. Nor dwell in their dampness. It taints me, blue.
But the more I read, and the more I do not read, adds up to my already full plate. But there's nothing on the plate at the same time. And if I prioritize one thing over the other, I drop the others. If I manage, the quality is low. If I don't, I ain't worth the effort. I write, and I do not look back on it. Once it's done, it's done. But what have I done? What is there on my plate that even drinking a glass of water will make me break? What is there in the gloomy parts of life that makes me want to question myself and everything as a whole?
Why is it that the more I know, I understand there's more I don't know and will never know? Is anything or everything beyond my resignation?
But these questions of insignificance make me do a great deal of things, like live my life the way I want to, without giving a care in the world. Wear that damn dress, eat that damn thing, dislike the ugly stuff on my table, scream that damn song, run barefoot in the grass, and do whatever the fuck I want. But do I really wanna be... insignificant? I don't know.
But it just doesn't make any sense anymore; and not like it ever did. I don't know what even ' what ' is. But I can, at least, try to think. That's enough, for now.
