written in June 2017 when I was utterly depressed

I am still 21.
I am already 21. I have completed a quarter.
(calculating with a life expectancy of 80-84!)

I feel like I have lived too much. Too long.
The mornings are dragging, hearts breaking at each sunrise, the cloud dusting over the moon, depressed and a lonely soul roaming around the space in search for what?

Emotions drink you up. And then, when the heart can’t take it anymore, they leave.That numbness, like the clutched fingers in the midst of piercing wind on a winter night.

Howling through my black hair is a note, from the world existing between the living and the dead, not quite either of them.

Walking around the neon lit city at night is like being in a half-awake-half-dreaming kind of consciousness. After walking out of the cinema, you miss the closing in space already, where the lights are torn and the only world existing is the one right in front of you, the sound, life, people, all of it, becomes a part of you whether you like it or not. Instead, you are casted out into the raw lights shining down on you, glittering too much around your silhouette.

Sometimes, I feel as though I have lived enough and it is time for me to go. The next morning will be a world without me, nothing too different, only a few will weep, and even they would eventually know, that time is what works the best and I will be only a vagueness standing between imagination and memory.

Who even said that you are alive now?

What would it matter if all of this, from your fingers typing these words to the books surrounding you, all of that and this, are summing up of your imagination, once you start to wonder, it is difficult not to think it that way. There is no way to confirm the relation between truth and lies because we don’t know which is which, such relativity seems to be the concept of this whole world, maybe the whole relativity itself is the truth.





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