Its not my country…
its not how I pictured it…
a 4x4 room, with a small bathroom, insects took this place, invested in it, and called it home…
its bellow ground zero, bellow streets level, so no fresh air at all and even though I keep on cleaning it, it doesn’t seem to get clean…
there is no one like me here, and no one who likes me here, no one who knows how funny, smart, educated and well brought up I am, or even how caring sensitive and considerate…
I'm trapped in this city of silence, where boredom is a best friend, I no longer write, I think I forgot how to writ, I don’t really know, I am really filled with so much hatred that my mind pauses when ever I grab my pen, it just doesn’t talk, the pen I mean, it used to move by itself…
I started new friendships, and started having problems, with those new friendships I mean, I couldn’t help but wonder…
Why do we curse the state of being lonely, if we get trouble from being social?
Why do we face numerous accusations of being "yellow", mean and malignant when we are in fact careful and afraid?
I couldn’t help but wonder, why does reality always slaps us in the face when we create expectations?
Also, I would like to know…
Or wait, now I know..
Its not the people that have something wrong with them…
Its me!
