There are these strings of days when you feel low and morose, depressed beyond every imaginable abyss, people seem inconsequential and excessively irritating and the sun looks old. And that too for no plausible reason. Everything in your life is going right, smoothly, no road blocks, not a hiccup, not even a murmur. And yet, there is a numbing silence. I think the sorrow of the mind is definately more painful than that of the heart.
You of course choose to disagree. But I'm used to that. I ask you the colour of your dreams. You smirk away and shake your head in that exasperating slow manner reserved for little children and puppies who just chewed up the remote. Ketchup or mustard? You laughed hard enough to pee just a little. I vehemently believe that solitude keeps me happiest. Its true. People are an enjoyable break between stretches of silent monologues. You tell me I remind you more of a smudgy little boy than a grown up girl. Disbelief blazes through you. I choose to turn away. Certainly not to offer the other cheek.
How many roads must one walk down?
One too many.