Inarticulate

How to put things into words- when all you're capable of, is only to mumble and hum silently inside. Rumbling and swallowing back my own words, clearing throat ain't that easy anymore. Witnessing the sun goes up in the morning, and go down at dusk. In the latter part of the day, the silent creeps and rustles slowly under the bedsheet, the wall making some creaking noise, the open window giving sights of the moon, the stars and cloudy sky; before I start realizing the factualness of my loneliness is only taking over a small part of the solitary system.

I wonder. Why the memory remains and existence of childhood. Then why to grow old. Why do we need partners, counter-partners. Why clockwise and anti-clockwise. Why not just be wise or be dumb. Why must be both. Why the hell am I writing and jotting this down.

The misanthropic life ahead starts the speech by telling small jokes here and there. Just in case the history gets alive again and it needs to get along fine with me. Else, everyone dies. I talk nonsense. So, what? We all gonna die- alone.

This time- God please, let me get what I want.