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And this is the beauty of a blog...its like talking to a crowd that doesn't know who you are, care what you have done in the past...just what you have to say.

Its even sweeter when you just write,and feel the satisfaction of voicing your thoughts rather than locking them up inside and dying a freak. who needs a shrink when you can blog??

In other news, i'm dead scared,dreading tomorrow, for in the hands of my doctor, lies my entire future... its like waiting for circumcision... I can almost foresee the pain. My optimism escapes me at such moments. Sadly, today, the place that I house all my fears, the person who wins top prize for my confidante, is the most distant of all my friends. He isn't mine any more,and that is the sad truth.

I quote a true friend...'we win some,and we lose others'...

I'm hoping I won't lose myself.

MARQUEE

So, I sat down today after barely getting any sleep yesterday night, and thought of my life from a whole new perspective.

When we were little, my elder sister and I played a game with cards. We would try and pile them up in a manner as to create a miniature figure of the Eiffel tower which my father had put up a picture of in our room. Every time we got close to completing our little project, the ‘tower’ fell…crushing our tiny hearts. We tried it with a little more tact…we built one layer, and took a photo of each as evidence of our grit. We made it to the top a few times, but nothing ever really lasted long enough to show dad when he came back home in the evening. Our only evidence being our photos, which at the time were not even instant.

My point? My life is exactly the same. Once I get control of a certain area, another phase comes tumbling to the ground. I gather up that part, another escapes me. It’s like playing with many balloons; you can never quite get them all at the same time, unless they were to deflate.

 Who wants a deflated balloon anyway? 

THE FUCK IS SORRY!!

Sorry. What is sorry? Everyone keeps saying that word, as if it is supposed to bring some sort of divine healing, make me feel as if the angels are watching over me…and the more it is said, the more it agitates my soul.

Sorry –what a weak word, what a stupid word! It won’t cure me; it won’t make me any happier than the minute before. Someone takes a fall to the ground and we say sorry. It does not pick them up, let alone lessen the pain that their knee caps are experiencing. The incessant way in which we use this word is worse than an addict’s enslavement to his drug.

Sorry does not strengthen me, or quell the fire in my insides. The sound of their voices flow over me like waves, I am not listening to the words, I am numbed by the horror of my experience. It is an unending nightmare.

I began 2012 filled with eager hope, thinking that it was perhaps, a new beginning, a door to a new life. It doesn’t really matter now? Nothing is new, nothing has transformed.

All the misery that has been pent up inside me is breaking, erupting in a torrent…flowing relentlessly, like a river in flood.

Another good-hearted person comes along with a ‘sorry’ running out of their mouths. Using my uncanny ability to pretend, I smile and take it in.

I am losing my patience.......


'sorry is a what YOU SAY WHEN YOUR BOWL OF CEREALS HAS FALLEN NOT YOUR HEART...its high time we get a new word for this..how about move the hell on...no looking back?'


this caption has been added by a person who shares my sentiment on the matter only in a different regard. we were hurt in different ways.
halla!!!!

REPRIEVE

So, I’m the 18 year old weirdo… Not your average teen: sitting around after a two hour class, enchanting my mates with tales of my encounters with boys or female gossip. Going for lunch in the afternoons at the latest joints, and giggling my free time away.

Instead, I am a grey- haired doctor’s patient, seated in the wards, with women twice my age. It isn’t my first time, and I shouldn’t be that shaken, but instead I am twice shy. Scared out of my skin. I keep telling myself that I know what to expect, but do I really?

Every experience has its perks, and as much as I am praying that it is my second and last time to have my chest torn apart, I am uncertain of the future.

I sit on my bed; outward invincible, inward destroyed. I guess we really don’t choose the when, where and the how… we only savor the liberty of selecting the who. I am me; no one else can be me. No one else can endure my pain.

The story that is my life.