There’s this constant agony of not being able to choose everything I want to be, all at once.
Undelivered subtleness of my sarcasm that the universe will never understand, and yet there stands a fear of where I’ll fall, when there’s no one around.
Who am I, when there’s no one around to pick me up, who am I when I hide myself beneath a blanket of false affirmations. There’s so much of “what if’s” and
“what not’s” and so little of “yes, definitely”
It’s like knitting a dream that’ll turn into a nightmare or a daydream and only time will unfold what it’ll turn into.
Till then I’ll sleep in the woven blanket of beautiful lies and an abyss of agony.