• srija_writes 9w

    An Ode to Existence

    How all of this uncertainty of the fine line between living and existing will possibly cramp me the most prevailed pretty intricacies of death until I throw upon myself on just breathing, otherwise. Or not.

    Sometimes I wonder what if I am not even able to touch the infatuated profound self trait I keep on daydreaming in the most umpteenth hours, perhaps how only then people realise that their hopes that had been outweighing each and every miseries through out every trace of their livelihood was nothing but absolutely hopeless within in it's own being. And maybe this is what keeps me going on penning these sadist poems, as they murmur, so the progenitors may see how I encountered beauty and grief in every existing matter and how I bidded my to-be whole life balancing my being fitting in between these three aspects. Three, because counting my existence in is itself a question of uncertainty, as, I have this thing for situations where I don't prefer giving my existence the privilege to exist because this is not what I was born for, maybe if I was, then i just don't want to, keep on raising my being in this way, the situations I'm talking about are the one not worth being lived, maybe now I know why people threw their whole life despising me for I was just trying to frame myself in quotes, that would be just eccentrically ineffable, but I would like them to be seen as something as a well thrived trite only to people who have this tendency of mutualistic relatability. Relatability is a very peculiar subject we all are tend to mug upon so as to feel less lonely than we actually are, and I don't intend to boast, it's just something I'm living on lately. Quotes are so voracious, aren't they? It's quite wacky to know that most of them are clustered in your screenshots, statuses and eventually some are being exposed to your toxic relatability. How a writer's quote, which the one never even fathomed about being quoted, becomes your only hope of survival, because we know that the things that have passed on are something more clarified and less judged more than the things which are yet to come.
    You see, this is what happens when people mock your being and it becomes more like a dare to be someone you never even thought of acknowledging, and how ruthless, apathetic and cynical your ideologies become toward the wronged people, no, I am not really induced to be a misanthrope, it's just how you see yourself the way they want to see you and not the way you actually want to.
    If you really love(d) me- I'm stating about the authentically profound love not the one aired in drivel hashtags these days; you would see how sheerly I would be willing to render each ounce of my breath to you. 'Remember, I'm always here for you', I say blatantly in pride, as if I were to offered the same, but this in not what selfness is all about, so I put an obligated hault in my suffocated individualistic expectations, but I, I watch my esteem being put on stake and now I know why being empathetic felt so treacherous. I wish I was loved in a wholesomeness so that I would know how it felt to be brimmed with something everyone dies for, something I was abandoned with by the very moment I had, as I'm not really quite sure how much of it is actually going to make feel "loved" enough. I wonder how everything of all I write doesn't make sense at all and turns out screaming of "I's", where my oblivion gets so very approved of my loneliness that I have had to make sure of being utterly aware of my presence, they call preconsciousness, so that I just don't get lost again in the streaks of nowhere,
    Just like i am being now. Damn.
    The only difference is that you pretend being oblivious in this high-time ruckus.
    Which is to say that you only like being proclaimed as such only for me.