I'm like an open book
And yet I feel like I'm shrouded in secrets
Unsaid words...unshared feelings..unexpressed emotions
I'm a beautiful mess...
Chaos and clarity both co-exist in me so harmoniously
Conviction and doubts...they both are attracted to me
Love and hatred...I'm an equal receiver of both
I say so much
And yet I feel like I've never really said anything
I think too much
And at times my mind just feels like a blank vacant space..
...unable to process anything
I can't quite define myself..
...i keep asking myself strange questions...
...who am I?
...what am I?
...do I have any purpose and if so then what is it?
My days are mostly spent in sadness and regrets  
And yet I find joy when I'm able to pen down this sadness
Sure..i cry my soul out when I write about the pain and regrets
But just being able to write about it gives me a different kinda' high
I guess it makes me feel relieved in some ways..
...a strange sense of comfort about being able to write what troubles me