Suicide 

Mostly I have always termed suicide as cowardice but now i actually can’t. because sometimes everything breaks inside you sometimes all you want is to stop being a name or a gender, to stop being a daughter, a sister, a friend, stop being you, to choose not to exist at all, not to matter not even to yourself.

living is fighting and when you can’t see what you are fighting for or is it even worth it? giving up seems so tempting.

The battle with loneliness is worst when  you have ppl around you but you just can’t connect to them, not the lack of someone but lack of ability to make them understand you. 

I believe strongest is the person who has been most vulnerable once.

Emotional pain and helplessness is probably the worst combination ever. Trust me when i say this, one would do anything literally anything to escape these. That’s why most ppl hurt themselves. 

 I m not suicidal, I still don’t suggest killing yourself as a solution because 

even when you feel you have noone, you still have yourself.

 When thinking about living becomes scary, remind yourself it won’t be same forever. It gets better, if you survive worst, you will reach your best. You have to keep hope alive.  Its necessary to survive and sometimes that’s what happens living a little less surviving a little more but the question remains 

is it better than dying? Dying in parts?
 

 

Wait

It was a rainy day, she was walking home from work without an umbrella when she met a stranger.
With sharing the same umbrella and sipping tea together soon the strangers became less than strangers.
Every night they met,
While walking from work.
Every day she talked
And he listened.
She smiled
And he stared.
She found a solace
In him.
The stranger became more than anyone else.
It rained again.
And she realised
It was the right time to confess.
Heart beating fast
And shivering voice
She started i…
But he stopped her
And apologized.
He said he isn’t what she thinks.
It can no longer happen.
There is no future for his being.
And she will never see him again.
And she never saw him again
He was gone as if he wasn’t ever there.
As if she imagined him.
Since then, every rainy night.
With his umbrella in the hand
She sat on the same bench
Waiting.