Blah, Blah, Blaaah

I don’t know why I like writing. I always have; but my hands itch, the most when I’m sad and lonely. Mind you, I am the most content when I am alone. It’s just sometimes when it’s late at night and I am tired yet not sleepy. I turn the lights off and light up a cigarette. And I let myself be. In such times the emotion which comes most easily to me is sadness. Weirdly enough, it’s a sadness which doesn’t make me miserable. It’s the culmination of all those emotions which sort of slowly, gradually seep in, over the years, from disappointments, from having loved ones, really dear ones go away, from having fucked up so much, from disappointing others and yourself so often, from failures, from the opportunities lost because of utter carelessness and stupidity. I sit and I cry about the loss of my first love. The one after that and the one after that; I mourn . I strike up imaginary conversations with them. I wonder about how life could have been, should have been, but never was. I look at old pictures and wonder how I didn’t wonder about the times to come and how things could go so wrong. I chide myself for the person I have become; a distorted shadow of the yester me. I used to be warmer, I remember. So accepting of people and their shortcomings. Forgiveness, came to me so easily. So did loving. Doesn’t happen like that anymore, somehow and there’s something inside me which tells me that it’s not a phase this time. Is it age? Is it the change in lifestyle; Moving from the wild university days to the more sober days of corporate slavery?

I think I am PMS-ing. Big time.