When feelings get saturated and you can't no more feel things, you die a sudden death every moment. Screaming your lungs out doesn't have any effect on your body, neither crying your tears apart, make you pain anymore. You just become someone, who feels ashamed of being called a human, coz things deplete in its own terms and you no more can't blink happiness into sadness. Everything becomes stable and the chaos inside you grows at every step towards nothingness.
Things destroy you to let the pain engulfs your tomorrow and you become nonchalant towards the inception of your thoughts, regaining conscious about the delayed response, you never expected. Like the numb version of breathing, where you feel lost even attached to the people, who you have been looking for in your dreams and you woke up panting, but in a spur everything's gone and the reality hits you, for now you can't remember the dream but all you feel is more lost. Morning becomes less tragic, when you realise the dramatic footage, just being played at every corner of the street and you can't run, for you are the one shouting at every door. People rushed, listening your scream and the world thinks, you are gone mad, but it's just the moment demands, to save yourself from the war, you let the whole city jump into your epilogue, which turns the radio silence on, making the world listen your grief, of how you have been feeling while running out of the breathes but still you can't feel things.
I die there numb.
Your brain becomes disfunctional, the right seems wrong, the wrong is nowhere wrong coz the right side of your body, becomes limpid like the handstick in your left.
You fall down.
Your body becomes a brothel for your soul, where everyday, you scream, shout, cry, at the adversity of the things you have been doing to it and your soul never finds peace. While escaping one day from the truth, you realises two things: either you are the one lying or you are the one accepting. Both ways, its the distrust of honesty, lying at the door, which you hid under the rug.
Things doens't seem out of control but routing, as a traffic signal at every brain nerve trying to correlate with each other but failing a brutal attempt.
When someone lies at the construction of museum, no one comes to see the history, for there was never one. They never learnt what history taught them, so they kept on marching for the truth but the lacking the wisdom to know the truth.
