What is the aim of blogging if you decorate everything you type to disguise the sickness in you?

What is the use of having everything, if it doesn’t make you even minutely happy? And what is the point of knowing people, if you don’t let them know you?

Meaningless. Purposeless. Pointless.

I hate the fact that I disguise my inner self to put up a different- a braver, a more intelligent and a more extroverted face than what I really am. I hate that I have no one to talk to about it either.

I am LOST! I am just a visitor to this place which many call home. I am a stranger in my own mind.

And now it's hard for me to blog anymore. And I am not sorry about this.

Although the blog has been with me, through and through, everything seems foreign. My emotions themselves feel counterfeit. I’m detached and do nothing. For the entire period that I’ve been writing, for three long years, I’ve been doing nothing. In this place of utter nothingness, devoid of all features, my mind is crowded with the fragments of self-pity, diffidence and doubt. I am overwhelmed with emptiness. I’ve been wandering like a vagabond, spinning and running from fear to faith and back again. I’ve entertained every fear and apprehension to fill my voids of silence and strangeness.

Today – NOW – it ends.

I've finally realized no one cares. Most specifically, me... I just don't care. Every time I posted something, I felt that I am learning how to get up and unlearning how to languish. But that’s not it.

What matters most? What is important? Is trying enough?

My life needs to be mended inside out – reach the innards of my brain, pull them out and cleanse them.

May be I’ll be back. May be not. But at least I’ll not cause any trouble anymore with my mindless and counterfeit posts. I’ve abused myself and my blog in more ways than one. I don’t know what kind of a mental image my blog presented of me but I’m sure that it was nowhere close to the real me.