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.
