Infinite loop

It is not necessary to bleed to bleed.

The girl who has been wailing the whole summer, she is not angry but bleeding. The boy who has been crying since the breaking of dawn, he is not sad but bleeding. People turning into wild bitches or hushed rabbits are bleeding without wounds.

Depression cuts slow and deep,
and it let’s no one see
the silent cries of help.

I often misunderstand people when their blabbering mouths are being shut by untimely silence, when they spit on mirrors, when they behave like a wounded lion and pounce on their family and friends, when they flow like mute rivers which carry dead fishes, plants and more, when they drink themselves into oblivion, when they stare at things and at people like there is a desire to swallow or embrace them left unsaid, when they hear music with deaf ears and dance to numb tones, when they deprive themselves of sensation; shiver in hot sun and loiter naked in deadly cold, when they refrain to look direct into eyes, when they stand straight and fall, all at once.

When this feeling slowly climbed up my nerves, all the shallow people suddenly leveled up in my eyes.

You need to cut yourself to understand that everyone bleeds the same color.

Finding reasons for depression is more depressing than the depression itself. Without reasons, solutions cease to exist. Seems like an infinite loop.

There is a chain; it fastens as we try to run away and loosen if we promise to stay. If someone else tries to cut through it, heartlessly it slays. But there ought to be a loophole to escape, there ought to be,


infinite loops do come to an end; all we need to do is break away; maybe today or tomorrow. There is always a way.

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