Demons

Some unanswered questions - unanswered, and uncomfortable - chasing you round the clock, staring at you silently (pretending to be dead, yet very much alive) - demanding their answers.

And answer you must. You don't want dead questions following you like dogs, do you? You don't want to relive their death, do you?

And yet answer you can't, because they expect words. A teary-eyed you - devoid of words, with a lump in your throat and sleepless nights by your side - can do nothing but annoy the Gods all the more. Devotees are most welcome, so long as they're not emotional fools.

Your existence is questioned, and that you're alive is no proof. Someone who's been suicidal for years can't possibly be alive, they say.

The walls of hope give way, and your own questions seep through. Assuring you of a death no worse than you deserve. A death of drowing in the waters of suspicion. Of doubts that others invented, and you lived with. (And will die with)



Mood: Indignant/Confused/And now tired
Music: Ek khyaal ke bagal mein kaise saari zindagi guzaar dein?