It's not mutual.
It is inexplicable.
This feeling: of keeping dark secrets I know not of; of reminiscing unforgiving and bitter memories; of teetering precariously at the edges of the unknown; of staring daggers at one and everything that matter; of finding fault with the slightest and the trivial-est.
Do not underestimate the power of dreams – I got all cranky, hot and bothered on a sunny weekend over these inner makings of my own brain and consciousness (or lack of). Brought it upon my own sorry self, no doubt, but I was not expecting this post-dream depression to set in and result in a different me.
Silent rage boiling underneath, taunted by the licking fires of the uncouth, the snickering tongues of untruth. This is the only time solitude fails me.
Something within me is going to explode – I know not when, but the wait is killing me – so get on with it, already.
I want to be whole again, but I cannot until you are.