This name came to me first. Nothing else. And nothing more has come after that, yet. And I am afraid I am not in the mood which gave me that name. This has happened so many times.

I hate this noise. But nobody lets me shut the windows.

I used to be someone a pretty long while ago. I am not going to dramatize. I am much of that person, but a part of it is no more. The part that used to give me these names. The part because of which I was able to write so much, feel so much. Emote so much.

I have lost it. It’s just gone. And any effort to feel that, or write stuff, is an artificial way to poke it up. Which wouldn’t happen.

The flicker thing was about the brevity of life. But that stuff ain’t gonna come today. I don’t know when it will come. But I know no one’s waiting.

I have lost a lot of myself. Sort of rusted and broken away, piece by piece. I am not the man I used to be.

Oh yeah, I am also seeing things. My room is dark and shut, except for the light from the laptop screen and the door. I thought I saw a dark, thin, female figure, dart into the room from the door. But then I didn’t see anything.

It might be a ghost who’ll wait till I go to sleep tonight.

What am I doing? What is this? What farce is this? Why do I refuse to understand that that part is gone, and all this effort amounts only to pain? Only to an irritation for what won’t come.

My friends are sitting far from me. And it’s like the space among us is filling, that they are inevitably drifting away in an expanding universe. Sorry, that’s inexorably.

And people bear with me. How do they?

This could have been called recap, you know? Because today was like a whole lot of really old past was again avalanching back on me today, like an overstuffed and messy cupboard thrown open.

It was the same thing again. A few days of being just friends. I have a tendency to land up with such things.

I am making such a pitiable effort to churn up emotions within myself. And this bloody keyboard won’t even let me type.

Hey, I am so not original, so not authentic. So false, so pretentious. So not reliable. So contraband. You can’t count on me. I am dangerous that way. I look like the truth, I smell like the truth every time you care to sniff. But every time I am thinking something else, planning something else. I am not there. I am not that. I am dangerous.

Isn’t everyone, a bit?

That’s the problem. We are all so alike. That’s the bloody damn problem. The bloody. damn. problem.

We do such things because of our large heads.

My head hurts a little. Not enough to not be called contraband. As always.

No, man, my head really hurts.

So fake.

I am getting worse here.


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