نہ کوئی جادۂ منزل نہ روشنی کا سراغ
I don't know what to write. I even don't know how to write. If this is not enough for me to digest, I can add more salt to this to make it even more tastier. So, I was saying I don't know what I'm writing. I don't even care that I'm writing. I am not even aware of what motivated me to write. Nothing, I think. I'm just a worthless piece of shit who is basking in his agonizing pain, who has been completely surrounded by anxiety, completely taken over by depression. I think I'm just making up everything. I don't know whether this is real or fabricated. I just want to get rid of this anxiety, of this pain of love that makes me to take deep breathe when I see the object of my love, just in order to gain control of myself. I don't know what I'm feeling this days. This trauma that I once assumed to be getting better is actually getting worse. How, I don't know how to come back where it all started. Now, I am thinking to post it on my blog. “No, ...