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Writing has become difficult of late. Almost as difficult as speaking.

Earlier, even though uttering words in front of people was a considerable challenge, writing used to come naturally. Now the words choke on themselves, regardless of the medium. So much that I fear that soon, my thoughts will follow suit.

This comes off as a weird notion. Funny, even. But if anyone has been me for the past 21 years, they’ll realize it’s a prudent fear. When the search for words becomes as desperate as one draw of breath when struggling underwater, when you find yourself unable to talk to the people just beside you for no reason at all(except for being unable to come up with a single word to say), when you start getting morbid and suffocating thoughts anytime you’re by yourself (which is most times), when you’d actually want to be around people you know you can trust but act like you don’t mind being alone, and then get worried of this entitlement dragging you away from those who could have eventually made it to your small circle, when every morning you wake up is a huge internal sigh, when you mull over every little thing endlessly, no wayward thought that can prance around your wretched brain seems far-fetched.

And then you begin to doubt everything about yourself, and about people around you. You think everything’s a raging sham; hypocritical even! All pretense and rues; like a big stage play being enacted for the sole reason that it’s always been this way, with you a slight anomaly, whose existence won’t register.

It is hard to look back and think of what brought this wave on — this inexplicable wave of self-doubt and listlessness, or is it called ennui? I hope not. It’s too sweet a word for such messed up meaning — or was that the point?

The Element Girl in Neil Gaiman’s Sandman was the latest character that stuck with me. All the masks, all the false faces, the crushing loneliness, the ugly appearance, the few contact-points that you expend judiciously, all of them struck home, and felt more real than actual people. And I understood her. I understood her story, but for this one question that still keeps bugging me: Did she regret her choice to die just before she was vaporized by Ra? Just like in her dream? I think she did. Will I have second thoughts? During those times when the happiest of my memories and the strongest of my dreams can’t brave the faintest of glimmer in my darkening reveries, I doubt I will.

But then I convince myself that it’s all in my head. And it works. Atleast until the next day.

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