I feel saturated a lot of times as of now. It’s not that I’m short of words but, the same old words, same old people, same old situations leave me no where but exhausted. I feel like I’m limited now. I can’t explore myself to new ideas.
I feel like giving up. I’m worried.
I am not hopeless; I just hope-less.
I wonder who’ll read me even after it’d be just a couple of years after my death. The purpose of my words will be in vain if it happened. I don’t feel like a writer anymore. I don’t write much; and much often.
But that’s not the truth; I just feel likewise and feelings are just a mere visitors.
Somewhere at the bottom-most corner of my heart I still hope. May be I don’t have one or may be I don’t.