"If I once convince myself that this kind of life is suicidal to my soul, I will make everything and everybody stand out of my way as I did before now. "
James Joyce
And I think it is. Days after days, after days. Days looking all the same. Days of tiredness, of bitterness, of unspoken words, of unwritten worlds, of regrets.
Finding shelter in my hidden self. Lighting a cigarette, looking at its smoke how it vanishes into the air. Like all the dreams, all the designs that we once had.
Feeling like I cannot find myself in this place. Feeling an alien in a world that I cannot understand. In a world in which I lost its meaning. Chocking in routine. Crushed by cliches. Feeling like all my words are dead before I can even utter them.
Right now, I don’t feel like starting something new. I do not want to be caught in another place. I do not want to be caged again. I do not want to be tamed. I do not want sanity. I want to fly away. Breathing, living, being free.
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