the threads in her head

Have you ever been trapped in a look?

Where you wished to understand the swirling thoughts lying behind the eyes, but can't seem to fathom its flow.

But can you get trapped in writing?

I write. I put effort into it. I try to express things the best way I know how. I use adjectives; I use metaphors, to show the quality of it. I nearly put my whole heart into it at times, a giddiness that overwhelms me for a moment, but slowly become this gentle ebb and flow that washes through me. It’s a moment where I feel senseless yet all my senses are tingling. But if no one understands, I don’t want to write anymore.

For what’s the use?

I write to spill. Yes. That’s what I do. I admit it now. I write to spill. Spill all my thoughts, throw it out there, flung it out.

I seek attention. I crave for attention. Call me a loser, call me what you will. I take comfort in knowing at least I don’t fabricate.

I’m not really a child anymore, yet I still act like one.

Sleep evades me. And my eyes are dry, though I want to cry.

Lie there on your back and feel time pass. Empty your thoughts, so much until you’re floating. But no, consciousness remains, it refuses to go, it refuses to go, it refuses to go! My rising panic; conscious thoughts of time rush into my mind and refuse to let me go.

Only fatigue saves me.

Cruel irony of the world, to make it so that it hurts too much when I run, so I can’t exhaust my whole self for sound sleep.

My own weak will, and thus I fall to the temptation of short little breaks – naps.

You seek comfort in the wrong places.

I know. Nobody’s going to understand fully too after all right? Words are just metaphors in the end.
~
I like this piece better than that insane "Maria" thing. I'll probably delete Maria soon, but who knows? I might go edit it instead. Gay Guide will be deleted for sure though.