Forgetting how fake this life feels. Forgetting we were never really free. Maybe the devil is just a mirror, and God is just a question no one’s brave enough to answer. And maybe—just maybe—the scariest part isn’t that we’re lost. It’s that deep down, we know exactly where we are
Sometimes I think this world ended a long time ago—we’re just too numb to notice. I wake up every day in a system built to crush us, not by accident, but by design. They told me to chase dreams, but never said they were someone else’s, sold to me like hope on credit.
How carrying your own broken pieces means dropping someone else’s without meaning to. How you’re punished not for falling apart, but for not pretending better. Maybe we’re not addicted to substances—we’re addicted to forgetting.
mentally emotionally physically drained. not in my lane. not focused. not moisturised. constant urge to cry it out in the shower. constant craving for emotional intimacy and reassurance. agitated. sad. lazy. burned out. not having proper meals or proper sleep. zero motivation.
and once you walked in with crumbled feet and a collapsed soul searching for your lost parts in the depth of my eyes asking me where do i belong, and i choose to remain silent.
for once i realized, loving you was the most beautiful form of self destruction.
-akshay ❄
when i let you into the crevices of my heart, dilapidated, moth eaten, covered by cobwebs that haunts me of people, once called it home. but you see i never made home out of people. like seasons they pass by, neither a ray of light or a drop of rain hitting my ashen floor.
when i let you into the crevices of my heart, dilapidated, moth eaten, covered by cobwebs that haunts me of people, once called it home. but you see i never made home out of people. like seasons they pass by, neither a ray of light or a drop of rain hitting my ashen floor.
no art worth a damn was ever created out of happiness.
ambition, narcissism, sex, rage,
these are the engines that drive every great artists, every great man.