Deep inside, somewhere I am losing my individuality;
My identity.
I can see my so-called precious dreams breaking inside that glass vase.
But I can do nothing.
I am just staring and doing nothing.
Nothing.
I am not me anymore.
I am behaving like someone else.
Doing things that often others do.
Sympathizing and consoling for my own failure.
Standing still and watching the tragedy to occur.
Actually, I am being a dead body.
A dead body with warm blood,
With eyes blinking,
With pulse beating
But a dead body still.
Where is the actual me?
If I was here, I won’t be like this sympathizers or dead bodies.
I would run towards my crystal box, shedding tears.
I would hold the box so tightly that,
It has to accept defeat
And stop itself from breaking.
Even with this constant effort of mine, if my dream box breaks,
I would gather each broken piece.
While doing so,
I may get wounded.
Red blood may be bleeding out.
But I need to fix it out.
Suddenly, the world became gigantic.
So were the people.
But me, I was still the same.
Standing at the centre,
The whole world around me mocking, laughing, hurting…
I was shutting my ears,
Closing my eyes,
My wounds bleeding,
Draining blood,
Screaming louder and louder and....
At last, even the last breath was taken.
I was gone.
Still the enormous things were doing their job
Mocking, staring, laughing…
As they were operated to do so.