Confession
I wouldn't call it sadness. But I wouldn't call it happiness either. I would call it- just being. A numb feeling washing over me every time I do something which used to previously entice me. An empty feeling each time I look at Him. A confused feeling each time I write, or draw. It's a constant state of limbo, which can neither be articulated nor communicated in any other way. This limbo which has sucked the life out of me has made me a bother, a nuisance to be around. I can never please those around me- but why should I try? I cannot be made happy by trying to make others happy. But I still catch myself trying sometimes- how pathetic. An introverted extrovert who more often than not speaks a word- or a hundred-too much. A person who cries for pathetic attention to make up for the lack of it from yours truly. Is it worth to continue living like this? No happiness- but no sadness either. It's just being.