Lose yourself

 Not all things are meant to last, not all feelings, not all experiences of selfhood, they are nothing but a brief song of a love-lost bird, nothing but temporary distances created or abolished by alcohol induced sleepiness, transient responses before bedtime from a culture seeped in competition, not all things are meant to make your nose bleed profusely, only the extreme heat or love does, that too in a certain moment reserved for that specific purpose, and your moment is gone, and your responses are perfectly predicted and replicated by someone else, you realise this when everything becomes too late, the songs disappear and your voice crackles from the despair of the uncertain, and love doesn't last, and that feeling... That entire feeling that you mean something as you are in this great void of a world, that feeling leaves you midway, everything in between that opening and closing point, doors that open both sides and you still hesitate to pull, you hesitate to pull yourself, the importance ascribed to selfhood from the moment you're born ebbing away at once, you ask yourself, you ask love to come back, you ask feelings to come back and yet nothing, nothing, nothing - no other feeling lasts.