I often kill my curiosities in the real world, therefore I pretend to be more real on a virtual platform, no matter how fake it all could get. - misleading though, I dream of some often & wonder how real it could get. I wish, I could, be more open, straight forward in approach, at least, there would be a yes or a no, and no hung midway. Why hidden agendas, why this falsehood.
I at times feel so bulldozed deep inside, failing to understand how joyful my inner being would be, if only I could be the same in the outer-skirts(inside-out) of my "that is who I am- that is exactly what I want" living like.
My eyes cant drool over what I want to see/stare, My mouth can't speak what it wants to, my actions cant perform what it feels like - when I want to - its these strings attached, that I always wanted to detach from and do things, I forever wanted. & for all other ones that mischievous myself to the core wanted, they would tag and call me weird, insane and a psycho-neurotic. They could do it, why cant I? They might hide & mask there desirous real life, and mock on there existence with a lame fakes, and call me a culprit. This socio-gender biased peeps, irrespective of color,creed and sex, will never be over with the ill odds of wrongly believing what was good for them and bad/wrong for others.
We could have a long discussion over the "in all but name" world, no matter of how high intellect or low erratic scribbles. But we fail to look into the eyes and speak our heart out pouring it all down on face. We are stingy when it gets to the hearing part, and all that is said and told, seems to be so fake on the contrary, provided there was this knowing inside-out with unconditional appreciation in approach, welcoming everything and anything and sharing that underwent a parallel, in contrast realm of verbal intercourse.
I hide my covetousness, disguised. I turn my blush into a sober smile and stay mum,pause and stop reacting, not uttering anything that would go against me. I am so piled up with everything else, which is not me.
I sometimes fall in for a refuge underneath a lonely strangled stranger(that's what we assume it to be, expecting more to it), but fail to understand - how could a soul be so indifferent to the other in real.
Its simply so worthy of talking to a complete stranger in a curious way, as if we were meant to have this conversation from a long time, destined coming our way at time, when we least expected. The hollowness that surrounds, differentiating the true and untrue hangs on the circumferential diameters of a radius, known, unknown, presumed, assumed, judged, pretended, real, comfortingly fabricated and so on. You don't need to have a real conversation at times, when you could read minds, and understand hearts, but blindfolded with the realization that only selfless could relate and bond. The known are to busy, its not the same with them, since we pretend to know all of them and vice versa, there is no fun in knowing more, and we put our excitements on a halt and move on to the other one. The other one does not either promises a fruitful end result. We are in a constant hunt of trying to revolve around in circles, trying to settle down to whats being served, and once in a while, when we are bored of everything else, we hit on to the newer revised version of what we call" communication", until then everything that underwent a stereotype pause, rewinds, forwards, plays, and exists, but of no avail.
This stigma complexes the very existence, based on falsehood of my very origin and drains all the energy, that could mint in some joy and give compassion to the soulful mimicry of my actions-enacted upon with ease, worrying nothing, doing everything.
My curiosities are often misunderstood and wrongly judged. Sad but true, thy shall be buried with me. - Anonymous