~scribblings~

It is not too early 

nor too late 

in the night 

I could check the clock 

but I am too lazy to 

I dosent matter anyway , 

whatever the time is 

its all the same 

I try to write 

at times 

sometimes that's the only escape 

my chair with wheels 

spins a little 

and the table violently wobbles 

due to my frantic dancing 

of my pen on paper 

when I finish writing , 

I close my diary 

and go back to doing whatever that i was going 

as if , I never did write .

I resume to the mediocrity 

just like I do 

after 

heart breaks...loss... deaths or nearly fatal actions of myself .

I look around , 

and I see cracks 

in the walls , 

where often the lizards hides, 

a photograph of me when I was 

oblivious , 

unaware of how life would turn out 

hangs crooked on a rusted wall .

on the bright ,

cheap bedsheet 

which sheds colour with every wash ,

besides the flower printed cushions 

lies a water bottle , 

almost empty . 

Outside the window , 

in the dark 

a light flickers 

the faint sound of a family quarreling echoes 

in the distance , 

the dogs keep barking 

and barking 

and barking 

I look around 

I stare at the walls 

I take a deep breathe 

a wave of fear 

pulls me under 

its too familiar 

i felt one 

just a few hours ago , breathe becomes shallow 

the fan gets louder 

and my scalp itches again 

probably I'm sweating 

I am thirsty 

my tailbone hurts 

I feel older than I am 

more tired than I should be .

bleak .

maybe I should end it all 

a thought , like lightning 

flashes through my mind .

I have grown too tired of life to even pause or for that matter end it 

But I tell myself 

I have grown