I’m writing to you again. It may be a bit impulsive to mail you but if you are reading this…
The floor, yes! I’m sitting on the floor. The room is cold. The lights are switched off. The speakers are singing beautiful melancholic lyrics interweaved with the sound of a sad mouthorgan. It’s not what nonsense the voices are saying but what the voices are feeling. And true! The voices are sad. The cold room itself is lamenting its misery by touching me on the floor. It has a painfully cold story. I want to get up but somehow I feel connected, I might be gifting it equal amount of cold stinging stories back. I’m sad.
“Try distracting yourself!” She had suggested the other day. “When I’m sad, I sketch!” She holds an important place in me. Thankfully I never told her.
Not that I have never tried it but my hands are sad too. They resist being bothered. All I can do is, write, but that as well is not helping. Books? No! Walk? No! Music? No! Movies? No! Please no! Nothing’s helping!
I want someone to hear me. But I am unbearably alone. Trust issues! I have trust issues. I am slightly paranoiac as well. I don’t want anyone to enter my shell, still, I am human, and I’m alive, I breath and something in me surely beats. It yearns to be heard.
“Pain demands to be felt.”
Try visualizing me! A man in a dark room, kept like a heap of flesh on the floor, dead face wearing a macabre expression, scribbling the diary in the only light seeping into the room through the curtains, some sad artist singing ‘blues’ with mouthorgan and violin in the background.
So many contacts on my phone! I have scrolled it thrice but have called none. I’m sure no one would want to hear me, more importantly; I do not want to talk to anyone. Often it comes to me as a sudden realization that I am surrounded by loads of people and yet I am alone. Am I sounding needy, vulnerable and desperate? Oh yes! I am!
“You are so vulnerable in your writings! How can anyone share his vulnerability?” She would say.
I did not reply her, so here goes the truth. My pen is naked! It is justified for it to be a slut and to let go off its wildest dirtiest fantasies in the most shameless way. It does sing the melody of my vulnerability at times, and I let it, for I know; it does lie at times, but never pretends.