Interests are getting suppressed. Things that used to be my
passion (which they still are, but have gone under hibernation) are also
getting dim in my arena. I go through early pages of my life, and I feel
surprised on the changes I underwent. In the isolation, in the separate space
where I have dragged myself into, I keep juggling thoughts and beliefs that
have burst out from nowhere. Why does this happen? No clues.
Facebook? Twitter? G+? I have quit almost all of them. I used
to be one of the most active person on social media websites. Though I never
run out of plots for short stories and poetry, but increased intimacy with the unusualness
has slackened the will to perform, to write them on my blog. Why am I writing
all this crap right now? I am only scribbling my heart on pages of my open diary just to
bookmark this day, and when I will look back again in distant future, I will
try to feel the worst unusualness that I have experienced. Why does this
happen? No clues.
Friendship which is considered to be the most sacred
relationship (I haven’t seen, I read in books) never crosses my way. It might
be that I am very stiff at my attitude and consequently this relationship never
intersected into my way. I have always tried to mix with people, tried to get
to know them, tried to weave strands of solidarity with the people whom I connected
with. But I have failed each time. Love? Does it exist? I have only seen
unusualness.
This unusualness is intensifying with each passing day. If I could ever get to reach its origin, I
will surely bring myself out of this labyrinth, killing the evil spree to
death.
