If your only choice is between insanity and happiness, what do you choose and how?
The problem with dreams is if you live with them for too long, they won't ever let go off you...

“Anything that does not kill you makes you stranger.”

“Anything that does not kill you makes you stranger.”

These words resonated in his head long after the movie was over. He knew exactly what the Joker meant.

He wished it had never happened to him. No matter what happened around, he felt nothing, as if in a permanent sedated state. He could not feel even himself, his own pain.

And then there were these bouts of rage, this urge to just kill anyone who came in front of him. Not just kill, mutilate his body till every ounce of life was gone. He had no idea what made him such a cold hearted devil. Life had lost its sanctity to him. He could not associate with people anymore. When he looked at them he saw bland, empty faces; all of them caught in this web of pain and pleasure they called life. To him they seemed sub-human; this struggle for bare existence, selling yourself to make a living is not human. Such life can only disintegrate the soul. There is no salvation for these people, no way out of this rut. To him, the only way out was the end of life itself.

And he knew he would not feel an ounce of guilt if he killed any of them. He knew if it came to it, he could just batter a man to death, and walk off unscathed, without any sense of remorse. It wasn’t for fear, that he didn’t do it. He had meticulously erased that instinct. It just did not seem worthwhile.

This should have never happened. Seems like previous life, but he had once been a caring, loving guy. Yes, he had never hurt anyone, but he knew he could. Sometimes his own thoughts sent a chill down his spine. His own cold heartedness scared him. He knew a part of his soul had died, or maybe the whole of it. But he didn’t feel it.

This should not have happened. Looking back he just wished he had never realized he was never truly loved…
I do have a blog; mostly dormant now, though. I don't know why I have not been able to put down a few words once in a while. I believe writing can be best assessed in terms of language and content. A great idea not conveyed well will hardly appeal to anyone. A well worded piece not conveying some meaning has little value. Evaluating any piece is a subjective choice, but I believe any good work ranks high on both.

Herein lays my problem. I cannot write unless I have something to say - my own thought, a better understanding of something, or just my views. Sometimes when I do get down to writing something, I feel language fails me or rightly put I fail language. Of the few that I do manage to finish, I get this lingering feeling that it’s not good enough, not yet complete. Seems I am stuck at in an unhappy, conflicted place, with no clue how to break free.
Risthon ki umr ka ehsaas un-me aayi daraaron se hota hai...