How often one uses the hands to placate the restive feelings depends on the ability to gather them in a safe place

The mind may be, but at this hour it is weary from the persistent turmoil from the contemptuous looks of passersby; the vagrant thoughts

Unleashed by some malevolent entities to mess with the authentic thoughts and chase them away unceremoniously

So, the mind is in the midst of a troubled phase of being aware, but also its inability to find a safe place

Fistful of anger hit the wooden table; the noise has a disturbing tempo and can awaken the neighbours

It’s only possible that reiterating the false ideologies have taken away the ability to communicate authentically

Forfeiting those genuine feelings; watching the fragile moments disintegrate into millions of particles

These darkened moments erase the days and forced to trail off like the smudges of ink on a white background

Even the faintest sighs prick like sharp needles and numb the places that are still aware of the situation


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