Stuck in the sieve

Emotions fixed at the back of my throat,

Difficult goodbyes and sore tears,

Unspent time straying at the abyss,

Merciless songs with sharp edges,

Frames that splinter my poor heart,

Waves of love that I succumb to,

Dense yearning for unlived lives,

All that's left of me is,

what's stuck in the sieve.

How long must I keep writing about you,

for this wound to heal! 

Even in the pitch dark you pushed me into,

I can only remember the light which was you.

I want to crumble inside you

like a dying wet spider 

and I want your face to be the last thing I see. 

The love I have for you has sharp edges 

and it hurts me. 

The commute.

Things to remember,

A string of "important"noises,

Toxic hormones in bulk,

Parasitic thoughts,

Souless techniques,

Timeless watch,

And meds for headache.

Things to forget,

Dead grandmother's voice,

Conversations past 2 pm,

Songs from soulmates,

Taste of mom's breakfast,

Sunsets and beaches,

Breathless laughter of old friends,

Best friend's face,

Unanswered calls from brother,

Journel of dreams,

Brush strokes and music chords,

Book quotes saved from 2012,

Haircut from 2017,

278 Gb of films,

And whoever you were.

Emptiness.

 It's been very long since I have written an actual blog and I cannot say, I was busy. I got hell lot of time and nothing to write. 11 months of nothingness and I feel like every artistic element inside me has been earthed. I used to struggle with anxiety so much during college time and I used to feel everything all at once. My mind was so loud that I wanted it to shut up. I had to deliberately control my thoughts. It was chaos. I wanted to sing, dance, paint, write screenplays, poetry, watch as many films as possible in a life time...

When I started working, things started falling back into places. I had a routine and I liked following routines or at least I believed so. I believed I would be the happiest just by lying on a bed inside a dim lit room listening to lofi songs forever. Turns out, everything I believed about me was wrong. I hate monotonous life, so meticulously lived, and I have developed deep rooted craving to travel. But, I realize it is not easy as it was before. 11 months passed by and I didn't feel a thing. I did not make one single art I am proud of. I stopped writing completely. It felt like a fog, which is sulking and covering my entire life. I was not unhappy of any sorts, but I was also never completely happy.

What is this paradox?