While i thought i could be solving the issues, and some greater one like this. It was of no use. Ultimately, it brought my own ruin. To be truthful, i have always been torn between being myself and being able to reply. Writing is something which i desire, and not from today. How this thing has gone about has been strange and unreal. The way i have carried myself in my reality, the kind of person which i really am all of a sudden went to the drain.

As i gather pieces of my broken self and try to mend them together, being labelled as the Frankenstein i created, and then being consumed by the same is the strangest occurrence to happen to someone.

I've had such a clear conscience, and even clear  knowledge of the conscience of people around me that it doesn't affect me much, but the real damage is  done and i do not know how to get out of it alive.

I have a lot of work to do which keeps me occupied, and i wonder if that can be judged by someone. A mask is not my real self, it was just a reflection of me trying to push myself beyond my limitations. I know it for sure, saddest part is that i lost my friends, but then what more i could've expected.

I have lived fully, and if i will end there will be no sorrow. I have never wished for something that i do not deserve, and my pleasures in life are really small. Each time my dear friend psychoanalyzes me, it hurts deep down, just for not being this person, but then Frankenstein consumes its own master. If you create a monster it there are all the chances that it will consume you.

It is not black and white, but since there were no intentions of harm to anyone, i would consider it all white.

What a journey to hell it has been, and all this while the ones closest to me have been there, i'm sure they had their reasons. Just waiting to be ready can lead to the end, and while i thought right time is going to arrive, it is now going to be eternity.