I sit down.
With an intention to write.
To vomit, perhaps.
All the damn thoughts and stories,
and words and recipes,
Of what makes me, me.
Of what destroys me, and you too.
Of what I've known or can imagine.

To empty my brain cells.
Storing the past and the memories.
Brainwash the future and the plans.
And start afresh.
And just exist, to breathe.
Turn deaf, dumb and mute.
To all the miseries of life,
One goes through, not just me.
With nothing, but present.
What would that feel like?

To the extent, that I wish for a baby,
And start a life from scratch.
If not me, but someone else.
And how sadist I could be, if I want this.
And how dark I could be,
With the thought I would never say out loud.

Perhaps, one day I will.

I sit down.
With an intention to vomit,
All of me, from me.

I sit down. To not wander. But wonder. And vomit.

To be at a loss of words. These words tire me. Sucks blood off me. I want this to come to an end. I can’t explain. How words are turning against me. How words, my beloved, are harming me. How words, my saviour, are hurting me.

I want a 'The End’. But this is just a 'Foreword’.

-uk