Fifteen days, no. Maybe five weeks. I've been observing a pattern inside my mind for the last five weeks. Things are unstably stable. I'm running with the chaos, but I'm loving it. Because I can still find paucity lurking around the shadows of chaos. It is almost like living my life to its fullest. 

This is what the pattern is for one, two, three and four days.  And the fifth day, boom! The bomb explodes, but it isn't loud. If you were standing beside me, you wouldn't hear anything except the casual Hi! and How are you? and I am fine, Please be okay, you kind soul.  Inside, it's a hurricane. A hurricane. I've never thought much about hurricanes until I experienced one every five days. And on a separate note, you never know about things and feelings as clearly as you do untill you've experienced them. Obvious, but worth taking the time to think about. There's a thing that cracks me up sometimes 'how when we're stuck, how when we need a solution, and how when we come up with one' it is completely spontaneous and obvious, if we come to think of it. But then again, it is not obvious, because if it were obvious, everyone would have thought about it, wouldn't they? Maybe we're too lazy to think about it. 

I've been pondering about things that never mattered to me, you see. So some change is bound to take place. But I'm finding it hard to sieve situations like these into discrete "goods"and "not-so-goods."  The air does not carry the smell of uncertainty these days. Things are definitely changing, and my perspective towards change is changing as well. But again, is it good, or bad? I shall know soon. 

 The air around me isn't perfectly circular when I say it has a diameter of sixty centimetres, but when I think about it, it isn't irregular as well. And when I think even more about it, it just doesn't have a shape! I have assumed it to be a circle.  There's no such thing as the air around me! It's the metaphors.  Metaphors. Though unreal, yet used to describe the reality. A paradox, maybe? Who cares as long as I'm able to convey what I actually feel?  

And of course, if the reader, yes, you my friend, have pulled it till here. Man. Who are you? And why are you even reading this? Do you want to know me from my writings? My character? Who I actually am? You won't know. 

Dear reader, even I don't know how much I reveal myself in these writings. Yet I still do. And honestly, I don't care. Dear reader, you should know that you're not going to be the one I would cross my eyes with when I roam around in the free space five hundred meters from my house. So technically, you're just a reader. Read, think, discuss and forget. That's your job. Leave the job of overthinking to me.

(P.S dear reader, you still here? And if you are, stay. And get out of here this very moment, if you couldn't bare me still here because things are about to get messy)   

Songs. Perhaps the only constant that remains in my life after the books and the two people who created me. There's a funny thing about you: I don't know anything about you except a few words that you make me utter in a singsong. Yet you know so much about me. But you know nothing about me except what I feel when I sing to you. Then again, the fact that you know so much about what and how I feel astonishes me. But nothing makes me more flabbergasted than the fact that you're not living. 

Ah, game of life. (This is the part you'd want to pretend that you saw me grinning when I did not.) 

Then comes an important part of songs, that makes us, the social (and not so social) beings crave for- being relatable.  A few lines and you go, "ooh! Ahh! That hurts. My heart! Somebody save me. Why is this so relatable?" and then you get all emotional when you find a song that describes exactly what you feel, acting like a preschool kid who found his lost toy. That smile. The tears. Ooh la la. Look at you now! 

But then again, you realise that you're just distracting yourself from the reality.  

"It does not matter", you say, I repeat, "it does not matter."  I'm finding joy, escaping from the reality for sometime, won't you let me keep my mind away from my sorrowful, utterly depressing and 'pouches of grief' filled life? You want me to slit my neck, or wrist and let the blood bleed? And die?"

No. I don't want you to do any of it.   

What is wrong with the reality y'all? It's the reality. The reality. Take a moment to sit on the fact that you're made up of dead things.   You've been living all your life here. Just accept it, even when it hurts. Stop being a hopelessly romantic person, someone heartbroken, depressed and whatever negative emotions you have in your dictionary.  

(For those of you who're heartbroken. I know it hurts even though I haven't experienced one. But hey, a single, small snap from your lover saying, "you know what? Let's just break up" shouldn't lead you to stop living your life. Your mama beared you for nine months and kept you protected. Now you wanna die or stay worthless because of just one person who thought you weren't worthy of their love? That's not fair, if you come to think of it) 

And I'm not one of those who you call
"A motivational writer who would open your eyes to the horizon and make you forget about the twilight shadows of your existence and live your life " Nope. Motivation is a piece of crap, if you ask me. 

I'm not telling you to be sad, I'm not telling you to be unrealistically happy or act like a ******. I'm telling you to breathe. Smile when the time comes, and cry when the time comes. Balance.  Get over the moment when it passes away.  

I'm telling you to live, even when you're climbing the hill, even when you're falling down, even when you get hurt, even when you question why you're climbing the mountain.    I want you to live. Breathe.