Pour Your Heart Out

The only part

"Pour your heart out.

Oh yeah, do it. I mean what's the worst that can happen?

It's not like it will make anything worse, right?

The downside to it is that they won't reciprocate your feelings, you will find yourself worthless, you'll have no purpose in life, you will lose all your motivation, your 24/7 thoughts will turn gray, you'll walk slower, sleep won't be easy to come by, you would have said goodbye to the only person you enjoyed talking to, the only one whose jokes you read twice to laugh at them, you'll listen to sad music, or worse yet, you will listen to no music at all, your heart will beat faster for no apparent reason, everything you enjoyed will become a distraction from the heartache, you will type gibberish like this, you will like posts on 9gag you could never empathize with, you might even start writing on a diary you never wanted to buy in the first place and that is pretty much it.

The upside to it is that if they do reciprocate those feelings, even if a scaled down version of your feelings, you'll be happy. Dat happiness, tho."

He wrote it and closed his laptop. It didn't make the 'tap' sound that he liked, so he opened the lid and closed it again. This time a little quicker. He heard the 'tap' sound, smiled and walked away. The problem was that he had nowhere to walk, really. He wanted a distraction, but they were getting in the way of him not wanting to get distracted.

He could go to the dining center, to get a snack. But who has the energy for it?

"I can't live my entire life in this room", he thought. "Let's not let my rediscovered laziness dictate my already meaningless life."

He had to get through his daily exercise routine. Writing exercises. God forbid if he had to do physical ones. Permanent bed rest would have been his preference in that case. His therapist had told him that he had to write as much as he could. Whatever he felt like. He could imagine anything. Anything he liked. Any scenarios he wanted, any person he wanted. Since he was an aspiring writer, the therapist thought it would be a good way for him to express himself. He called it 'exposing yourself to your inner self', or EYTYIS. I know. It is as made up as it sounds. But this doctor came with a big reputation and big fee, he must have been good.

The only thing ZA could not figure out was why had his parents chosen such an expensive psychiatrist for his therapy when all he had experienced was a small bike crash. Yes, he had had hit his head on a cart's weight machine and lost a few days of memory, but even then. Rs.10,000 for a session, and that at 2 sessions per week for 6 weeks? You do the math, it's too much.

He had insisted on coming back to his college to continue his studies and resume the therapy there. His parents had complained, but Dr. AZ had pressed his parents to let him go, let him return to his normal life. Perhaps that was the way he thought would help ZA in recovering the memory. He had said that it could help him recover better and quicker and if the doctor of his caliber said it, it had to be true. He had already missed 2 weeks of his semester, and he couldn't wait anymore to go meet his friends. It was already his last semester, and he didn't want it to go to waste.

Anyways, back to the writing part. These 30 minutes had somewhat been a little anxiety ridden for him. He had liberty to any think of any life he wanted, but he always ended up in the same place. Actually it was three different stories. Of all the stories he had written in that period, 3 stood out. The difficulty was ending them. So the 'artist' that he was, he decided not to write the entire stories, just the plots were enough. Afterall, only his psychiatrist was the only one who would read them.

The most difficult to write was the one where he was just outside the female dorms, near library. He was sat on the footpath, facing the library, while the security guard stayed as vigilant as he ever was, casually opening the gate for faculty members and then returning to listen to honey singh's hits on his cell phone speaker. It was always night. He couldn't see the stars, but the bright orange street lights that he hated were casting a sharp shadow of his weird nose and skinny arms. It was, as if, something had just happened, but he could never remember what. It wasn't as much a memory, as it was a deja vu. He could almost remember what had happened next, but he just couldn't. And that is when his headache started, so he went to his football fantasies and started typing again.