Again, I am caught in this kind of dead moment wherein listening to some sort of emotional pop song would suffice the need for pain. There is a little heart pinching, but not enough to cause a teardrop. The feeling that there’s only a flimsy emotion to put away is terrifying. I fear not of being weak, because I yearn for the push of self-pity potency afterwards. I fear not of sadness, since it gives more meaning to ecstasy and all the conceivable hedonism. I fear not of bead of moisture, I even induce it to a weeping waterfall. I fear that I might abuse this impassiveness, that I might lose all the colours of life even the darkest shades, which in time might just left me with an empty sight. I fear of being detached with my emotions. I fear of the coldness in my brainwaves. I fear of being meaningless. So now help me, strike me with melancholy, and hit me with agony. Drench me with plethora of emotions.