Stressed out, my hair unkempt as usual, my body wearied from the hustle and bustle. I laid down on my sofa, my temporal hideaway from the troughs of life, the J-pop in the background waning slowly into a lullaby that sang me into a half-conscious state of mind.
Overwhelming, my emotions ran wild, mostly depressing, probably enduring the sad phase of depression. I did not even have the energy spared to curl myself into a cocoon, I just laid there, let everything out in a bead of tear, rolling nonchalantly down my cheek, leaving a streak of oblivion to the feelings inside me.
I was lost, I was in a mess, my insides were in a perpetual cycle of convoluted concoctions. The conversations inside my mind that were convulsive, repulsive cacophonies, drooped into an enigmatic silence which I appreciated more than anything.
The dead of the night, the nothingness of the silence, the epitome of my solace. I could do nothing but to conform into the cradles, the embrace of an empty reverie, a sleepless treatment.
A slight push, a catalyst for me, generating limitless thoughts in my head. I got out of the sofa frantically, searching for paper and pen in the heaps on my working table. The lamp shook a little as I settled myself down at the old spot where art was my only answer.
I could not take those thoughts anymore, I poured it out all over the paper.
FeAR. Loosss. Fu. F. Pleas.
Sporadic. My head was all over the place. But as I scribbled out the concerns that was bothering, my hand was like a natural, writing by itself, I could not think more about it. The thoughts just flowed through my hand, like an overflowing vessel.
Unimaginable. Great. Satisfying.