The Introvert Introspects

This photo that I took on April of 2012 seemed appropriate for this particular post.

Asleep by The Smiths has been on repeat for more than a handful of minutes. Why does melancholy seem so majestic in melodies? In every note, in every heartrending do re mi, in every vestige of sound that reaches my foreboding ears, I am carried away into a breathtaking multiverse where bliss has become nonexistent and sorrow has turned mundane.

Pretense has been my favorite method to cope with the distress and the harrowing insignificance of my life. Bottling my emotions has turned into a means of escape from a world where every second of laughter and smiles seemed cumbersome and plagued and deceitful. Submitting myself into the pool of thoughts where in every letter, every word, every sentence, every paragraph I pour out in an empty space in the worldwide web has become my only comfort. 

I could talk and sound nonsensical. I could listen and become caught up in a web of ennui. I could stay away and become swathed in paroxysms of loneliness, of emptiness, of indifference. I can no longer feel human when all I could ever express are raging thoughts and pensive words. In fact, I no longer feel human at all.