Of emptiness. The stomach feels like it is scooped out and filled with a solid sadness. Like if you operated me, you would actually find the sadness - in a small, smooth lump.
Of quiet despair, whistling soothing tunes to itself.
Of a cry that gets fibrous and slimy. It stays lodged in the gullet - niether going in, nor coming out.
Of sleep that makes you feel jilted.
Of fatigue that stays behind like remnants of dark nailpolish even when you have done your damndest to get rid of it.
Of a quiet certain feeling of being a failure. It's a feeling that settles in some cushy armchair your heart had that you didn't know of.
What is this feeling?
I'll think about it on my way to Bandra to meet a friend.
Of quiet despair, whistling soothing tunes to itself.
Of a cry that gets fibrous and slimy. It stays lodged in the gullet - niether going in, nor coming out.
Of sleep that makes you feel jilted.
Of fatigue that stays behind like remnants of dark nailpolish even when you have done your damndest to get rid of it.
Of a quiet certain feeling of being a failure. It's a feeling that settles in some cushy armchair your heart had that you didn't know of.
What is this feeling?
I'll think about it on my way to Bandra to meet a friend.
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