I haven't had much happiness in life; what I had, I threw away.
I am too cynical. This cynicism draws a veil over my better judgement up to an extent that I see everything with a jaundiced eye. A smile is like a sneer to me, friendly banter is sarcasm to me, an advice is a spillage of vitriol and a gesture of kindness is cold comfort.
The whole world seems to be against me, baying for my blood, determined to pull me down; down to the very depths to which the vermin seem to belong.
Writing what I feel seems to be the best way of letting out the tension that seems to hold me in a vice-like grip, twisting and kneading, threatening to pull my vitals apart. The words I put down on paper are my sole attempt at catharsis; I don't know how to say these things to a fellow-being.
At this moment, the paper seems so animated, so close to life; my only companion with whom I communicate with the pen.This new-found friend seems so considerate, bearing all my rantings, never complaining, never being judgmental.
When tears are shed, they relieve the mind of its burden of grief but mine seem to be trapped in the eyes, welling up but never falling, choking my throat, weighing heavily on my soul, tormenting me till I beg to be let off.
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