"Is it normal to feel this exhausted all the time?" 

Say you are awake 16 hours and you only get 7-8 hours of sleep (or less) per day, mathematically speaking it does not sound unreasonable to be exhausted. 

Every action or movement we take we are burning away. A constant loss in exhaustion. A constant loss in living. So make it count. 

My last thoughts to end the year. 

Afraid. To be scrolling life away. Passing by these fences, within lies a probability. Have you missed the signs or misinterpreted them? Roll the dice and let them fall, move your piece. In sliding doors this would had two scenes playing out consecutively. Which is like you? Is there nothing after? 

That is how our generation sends out a flare of distress. A shot into cyber space to vent the unmindful ever wicked carousel of thanklessness. Could the weight of our efforts be satisfied with the mere click of an icon or comment? Are we all just looking out to scratch a mark on the surface of existence so that anyone who could recognize the need of that recognition would pause and give away two seconds of their life. To like. Or comment. A job well done. 

Desperate times. Desperate. 

All you needed was one set of undisturbed footprints. That is the hour you knew that a section of the structure has just experienced its first tremor and change. It was subtle yet brutal. Maybe that is how buildings fall apart. They get stripped by layers and then collapses inwards. It knew. 

When you stand alone, do you feel a little more brave? 

They will always kill the messenger. 

A thankless job this is. 

The remnants of yesterday lingers. It is a gapping hole that refuses to be denied of its existence. Patiently in the shadows it sinks it's teeth into your vulnerability to remind you the demage accompanied by the phantom scar where you frequently run your fingers across to feel the uneven edges. Defeated. Why not, not. You must feel the whole pendulum of the equation to know what is missing. 

"He finds a lot of wrong pieces. Then he finds the right piece. But then he leaves it behind. Then it ends." 

I have read and found myself dying all over again. Leaving a mark. 

Layers. You were a layer. And the many you's to come. Playing a single track while adding in the rest of the instruments piece by piece. How we recorded it all in a storeroom, that process was already learnt. The only change you could possibly make is to re-record over it until it satisfies. 

We are the victims of our own sloth, putting off the things that meant everything and yet they became nothing. You were the best memory. The early mornings, disheveled hair, pencil marks on paper, endless matching of words, going at it again and again till it fits. A kind of peace that descends once it is complete. 

"I remember the day that saved us. 

Do you remember this. 

This is never goodbye."

-Juliet Simms 

"I have written over it. I have recorded on top of it. I have reprinted it. Life is layers, fluid, unfixed, fragments." J.W 

I've not forgotten. This is where I started; creating stories out of moments and scripts out of memories. That is how we move on. You stop. Write. And go. 

When you decided on something, it takes you to places that you were not prepared for. You adapt and make required changes to be and live. Conditions are less backwards now. Despite the increasingly intricate compulsion to sustain this frontage. 

Candidness will not prevail this time. 

Unspoken friction for each new conquest.. A touch of seriousness, a chemical magnetism, the way two pieces of a child's puzzle fit together. The normal prelude. 

We started as pixies and in time we become human. Within a small space seated in shadows who would have thought it could change the present windows. If we hadn't allowed our feet to take us to places. Fingers with their whimsical fancy. Which doors would you had missed and entered, wide eyed and waiting.      

You

In the break of dawn, i watch the bus give chase to an empty train.

You learn to look at signboards as places where people come together.

There shouldn't be casualties in the pursuit of space.

It all boils down to gestures. A slide and hit regime. And that is how we end each day by sending it across time, erasing it from the present, double checking that no ghost remains. With the final touch of placing it in invisible folders that is not threatened by moth or dust. It is an act to be less because you are nothing but helpless.

When you start making every scene yours by conceptualizing it into words, you are made vulnerable. Because you are well aware of the blurring lines of your emotions and the character of each sentences are the source of your pain. You find yourself lingering on the same page and song, it is hard to let it pass. Not today at least.

For to write, it is to hurt tragically.