This is not a happy post.

I sit quiet and paralyzed in my room waiting for the thought to pass, stale air trapped in my lungs, tired limbs on the cold, hard marble floor, I attempt to whisper mantras about practicality.
But the thought refuses to pass. It stays..

..I stare at the ceiling, thinking about the number of graves I've dug myself; sloppy and poorly handled. There is a piece of my soul in every grave, and I think to myself how much I have in me, left to give. It’s funny, really…individually, how they almost mean nothing, just small messy holes with minuscule past regrets and failed attempts but then you stand outside of the box and get a nice aerial view,  you realize you’re looking at an entire field of loss; loss in dignity, respect, love, life, knowledge, trust and mostly, people.


I wonder before I die, if I will be empty.

P.s- This is my first attempt writing about my feelings and emotions. *gulp*
Next post, getting back on the randomness and awkwardness of my life.

P.p.s- I hate being sad. Good music can help me. Paaahleasee giveee.