FRACTURE

Studying has become the most unreasonable and unreachable thing in my life. Hours pass by, yet my book remains still, like a solid rectangular rock sitting in front of me—without a single page turned. It feels as though those two pages simply refuse to leave my sight, forever, asking me, “Human, what makes you so depressed? Why do you cry?”

I could never tell them what goes on inside me when they look at me eye to eye. And perhaps that’s why this leftover blank section of an old notebook page is now feeling my emotions… probably.

A whole world of thoughts shuffles in front of my eyes. Random memories, unnecessary stories, fairy tales invented by my mind—all passing through my head as I watch the corners of the pages dance up and down in the wind of the ceiling fan.

Some of them feel so real—perhaps because they’re the only reason behind all this silence. And while some of them… feel impossible. Not even remotely close to what life has probably planned for me.

I don’t even know if life has planned anything for me. Maybe it’s just me—blaming my life for everything I’ve done wrong. Or maybe that’s what we all do. Maybe life doesn’t do anything bad to us—we do it to ourselves.

The more days I spend like this, the farther away I seem to drift from the life I expect. Or perhaps it’s the opposite—which is what I want to believe.

Or probably I’m just a psycho… since that’s what they call me.

Whatever.

After hours of staring at the same page and inventing stories inside my head, I’m going to sleep now, wishing to wake up the next day. Or… perhaps it could be the opposite again.