Surviving.

I read a book. I scribble something on a piece of paper. I find it interesting. Lyrical even. I read it. In my mind. Under my breath. Aloud. When I am alone. Meek pride...

I will crumple it up and throw it away tomorrow.

I believe in God. It doesn't hurt. Formless. Abstract. Omnipotent. All encompassing.

The usual.

I make up witty statements to defend my spirituality. Suit up the words and make them look good. After a certain point of time, everything seems lyrical. Even this. Everyone listens to you then. Everyone but you.

God is....

I don't tell her. I don't intrude. I let it go. The reflections. The Kohl. The songs.

Afraid for her more than I am afraid for me.

Sigh.

I need people around me. I need people around me to prove to them that I am a loner. I sit alone. Apart. I lose in my thoughts. I brood. I sulk. And I glance at them. And I hope that they glance at me. And then I look away.

I blatantly ask for pity. Blatantly. I wallow in pain. I enjoy doing that.

God is pitiful because he looks down upon my inexcusably meager existence and decides to let me survive.

I am, in essence, docile. I am, in essence, an escapist. I am, in essence, only human.

I am, in essence, surviving.

I am.