A wall.

Staring at the raindrops as they create a rhythmic melancholic sound, past the immediate crowds and fast moving surroundings, paying heed to the mellow entourage and staying in sync with tiny tear drops rolling down her flustered cheeks as she thinks endlessly and drowns herself into a cage of emotions. Everything seems right on the outside, but is like a deep hollow in her chest, and she feels, forcing herself to embrace herself over her triumphs and successes in the recent past. She keeps jolting herself to respond to one question, whether this is really what she wanted? 
Fake smiles, praises, and talks suffocates and unnerves her to break free or to break in, she doesn't know. She decides to break into a limbo, where she can close the doors to anyone who tries to intrigue her to let her guard down, to make her vulnerable, breakable and lost. A state of oblivion to everything, but one, herself. Where no word would make a difference, where all care would mean nothing but a bubble she wouldn't dare engulfing herself in. Maybe she isn't mend for what she's got, but will a couple of hands pulling her down into a black hole give her what she deserves? Do these hands deserve her attention, after every inch of handwork she's succumbed herself into, just to get lost in the pool of horrendous antagonism?

She's told that's how the world revolves. That's how we're all mend to be. Alone. Everything, everything is a competition. Whoever said winning wasn't everything...Never had a scalpel. 

But the question is, what after that? Has one ever thrown a light on what follows once you make yourself reach the top, stomping anything and everything that crosses your way, just like a soldier, crushing your "enemy" in cold blood. But is this enemy really what you'll name it? Or its a masked illusion, which you want to keep as your closest possession, only to destroy you completely with each passing second? Stitching her lips to bring a harbouring close to any words which might shut the small window of hope, she elopes into a world of taciturnity. Better remain mute than sabotage any signs of happiness and hope, which she deep down realizes is nothing but a fantasy. Its not that she can't speak, that her brain has become dormant, but its a forced will to not utter words which might pierce her own thoughts and awaken sorrow which might fall upon her for the crime of being diligent and a tad bit lucky? 

Maybe she needs to understand the perks of being a wallflower, and find joy in solitude, and create an aura of happiness in her own misery. She now knows that every single time she's tried to cut lose her thoughts, and spoken her heart out, all she's got is resentment and negativity. Pessimism defines her, and she proudly accepts that. Every steps towards optimism has been a blend with a backward push to relinquish positivity. Maybe we're not supposed to be happy. Maybe gratitude has nothing to do with joy. Appreciating small victories maybe does not exist in everybody's life dictionary. 

"Communication. It's the first thing we really learn in life. The funny thing is, once we grow up, learn our words and really start talking, the harder it becomes to know what to say. Or how to ask for what we really need."

Sometimes she feels she's too much on everyone. A burden. But she wonders, how do you know how much is too much? Too much too soon. Too much information. Too much fun. Too much love, or too much to ask of someone? When is it all just too much for us to bear?

Just like the thunder, she shudders to the thought of speaking out. That's she'll be squelched. Her expectations and perceptions will go in nothing but vain...And she'll shut herself to reality behind a wall so unbreakable and tough, that nothing in the world will let her fall, making her stall tall and strong to anything and everything that comes in her way...