There are times when you don’t know what to write and even why to write, but a little voice in your heart says to write something, unburden its load on a paper with the ink of thoughts. You start but the pen blocks at every sign it gets, not because you don’t have anything to write but because so many ideas are fighting to get immortal on a piece of sheet that it gets difficult to separate one from another.
Source: http://www.iobad.com/post/116716586/how-long-can-you-live
Life is stuck between monotonous daily chores and you can’t see through it. Always lagging behind the boundary lines, running in a rat race. You want to get above it but work load pulls you down every time. You want to seek pleasure in small things but even they are hard to come. So in attempt of going beyond it you start something equally hazardous to make your life feel it’s unimportance. You buy a cigarette and every puff of it makes you feel worthless. You are paying for quick death; weren’t we taught of life as a gift? How the unshapely smoke gets within you, kills you from within and comes out as a winner. Every form it takes reminds you of something, something worth you could be doing, some pain those were supposed to be hidden. How a man who boast about his mental strength is vulnerable to a tiny cigarette. King
it’s called and it does his work like a king.You never has the reason but you go for it, to feel the pain and feeling of death from within, and mumbling of the pain as the purest form of pleasure.
You know that it was supposed to be the end, but you can’t stop now. So many thoughts taking shape in your mind. Every word fighting for its proper place in the text. Every thought with a dream to be immortal on the page, which otherwise would be lost in the world of confusion and calmness. Something hurts from within and is not pleasure anymore. You want to correct it but don’t know how. Now when you feel, how weak you are from within, you just can’t write anymore. why? Because you know your limits.
