Category : Stories

Sub Category : Fiction

ENTRY NO. 2

It's one of those days again.

Depression is beginning to slowly creep in.

I try so hard to understand what I'm really feeling but it's useless.

Why do I even bother to write these memoirs?

No one's going to read it! And why do I still bother checking the grammar?

No one's going to give a s&*#t what I write here anyway.

 I'm beginning to feel angry again, at myself, at the people around me, at everything around me.

Why does it always feel like I have no control over my life?

Why does one person's opinion matter so much?

If this is what being in love means, then I'd rather be out of love.

When you are in love, the world suddenly stops spinning around you. It's as if your whole universe made a sudden right turn towards another universe.

Then, suddenly, you feel like you are being swallowed up by a black hole. Everything is put on hold, waiting for a single ray of sunshine from the one source of light in your universe, the LOVED ONE.

 I just feel so frustrated, so weak, so useless! I want to cry but even my tears do not listen to me anymore. What kind of feeling is this?

It seems to destroy the very fragment of my being.

Perhaps I think too much, or maybe I'm too sensitive.

I don't know anymore.

What's the use of living if an outside force dictates your very existence?

How did I ever get into this situation, anyway?

 Did I make a conscious effort to fall in love? I really don't know.

The question I should really ask is: Is this really love?

They say that love is a many-splendored thing, but so far, the only "splendor" I have ever felt was between the sheets.

Is that all there is to it? Am I demanding too much?

The more I think about it, the less sense it makes.

It probably would be better if I go back to planning my inevitable exit from this wretched existence.

That, at least, gives me something to look forward to.