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, you can't.” my inner voice is so loud that I feel deaf to outside world. I can't be showing anything to outside world. I can't be showing this to my love. It is so shameful that I feel might be showing off. Yes, I'm kinda showing off but why? To feel better? To get approval of the person I love. I'm sick, I think. Sick to the point of wanting and not wanting attention at the same time of my love. Why do I want attention of her? She is happy, enjoying life, more optimistic. What do I have to offer? Misery? Pain? Pessimistic ideologies? Do I even have any ideology? I don't think so. But still I am human. I deserve to live, to live as freely as I could. But what do I do of this freedom when it all becomes a mere loneliness. I can't afford loneliness. So should I give up my own self to get what I want? Did I say I want friends? I definitely want more people to connect with. But what should I do of this social anxiety when all my senses turn against me to get me down. And at that moment I feel paralyzed. I just want to run at that moment, run as much as I could. Am I escaping reality or am I mad? I think, both. I thought moving to Islamabad would make things better for me but everything is getting more disturbed. I think I have become selfish. I only think of myself. Do I? I don't know. I am full of self doubt, a confused personality who doesn't know where to go. Sahir pictured it in one if its poem so beautifully that I think it was written just for me.

نہ کوئی جادۂ منزل نہ روشنی کا سراغ 

بھٹک رہی ہے خلاؤں میں زندگی میری

انہی خلاؤں میں رہ جاؤں گا کبھی کھو کر

میں جانتا ہوں مری ہم نفس مگر یوں ہی

کبھی کبھی مرے دل میں خیال آتا ہے

I think I should write about all my traumas. But why? To feel better? There's a fifty percent chance. It can make me feel more down than I already am. Should I write about those tragic moments that I have been receiving from childhood and hiding it from others since then. Why do I need to hide them in the first place? To feel more secure or to avoid a shit load of insecurity? I am not normal, should I consult a psychologist? Should I?