Editor: Khalid Mohammed
: How do you feel ?
; I feel the sudden urge to cry. My tears are trapped when I’m in public, and when I’m alone? Rivers flow down my cheeks. I don’t know if it’s the stress I’m under or the people who let me down. The ones I stayed with in their weakness left only when they regained their strength. It’s a mix of feeling useless and having so many chores to do.Feeling like you are important in someone’s life one dayand the other crying yourself to sleep. The prey becomes the predator and the sinners become the saints. Some betting on your failure and others pushing you so hard towards the top that you almost slip. But what I know is that to stop these negative feelings, you need to talk to someone or write all about it.
I do write to myself, almost everyday actually, but pouring out what’s been bottled up inside to someone who understands and doesn’t judge is another feeling of its own. Maybe because I talked to the wrong person, I feel that I should keep my feelings and thoughts to myself. Maybe because when you talk so passionately about something and receive a reaction short of what you hoped for, you keep your ambitions to yourself. Maybe because when you cry your heart out to someone, and receive something short of a warm hug and even warmer words, it’s not your fault you‘ll never show anyone your tears again.
Only my pillow knows how much I’m hurt. Only my bedroom walls know how much I need someone to lean on . Only my green notebook knows how good of an author I am. Only my elephant plushie knows how much I love sincere hugs and embraces. Only my gallery knows I am bat-shit crazy about Vincent Van Gogh. Only Google knows how much I am dying for an Australian Shepherd.Only my mirror knows how much I love pulling my hair into two pigtails. Only my library knows how hopelesslyromantic I am. The lost goes on and on. Maybe objects will forever understand me way better than humans ever will. Maybe the only living being who’ll ever see the true me is searching for the one who’ll see through his soul too. Waiting for the person who’ll look at his wounds with curiosity and ask where they came from. Not tell him how to hide them. The person who’d cuddle with you when you’re sick.
Maybe the other halves of us are still out there – justwaiting for us to find them. Maybe they’re on a mission,trying to find us too.
Now do you know how I feel?