Suicidal Flowers—Diary of a Depressed Orchid

I cannot recall, the last time I was happy or saw me flying amongst stars. For the art of suffocation has me walking on top of my dead dairies. They always ask of me—happiness which is just a lie and comfort in each pain that has me dancing such elegantly.

It feels so good to be depressed, at least I know that I will not make it till the end. The red sheets of my bed and the affection of my own emotions—there is none. It feels such, as if my mind is going to be freed—if not for the solitude that I desire every second.

I have been so depressed that I have forgotten what it means to be a human again. Perhaps the ruins of my own conviction. My heart beats as if each day is a curse and I do not want to live anymore. Have you ever felt so depressed that all one could do was to count the stars in misery—if any and feel the warmth of the luscious pill in abundance.

What does it even mean to be human?

My urges have me running out of reasons to continue breathing. Red touch and her aroma—why do I even desire this?

Once upon a time—I remember, dancing under the virgin forests and wishing nothing but the currents never to stop. The feeling is mutual now—only that suicidal thoughts have me vastly occupied. There is no help—there perhaps never was and I’m nothing but a piece of uninteresting silk. I’m dying here and there is nobody to save me—there never was.

In each pity painting, I weep rainbows of grey and the angels have undressed each other. Even the Gods are having unprotected sex, if life was meant to be any fairer. Dripping rain and rhetorical pain—those that never made you alive. If feels like everything is in harmony—if perfection is the name of each dissolving moment.

If life shall ever deceive—know that it wasn’t any fairer to me. All I felt, sparks of grief and joys of tears as my mind started giving up on me. It does not feel real—nothing does and all that is, beautiful ruins which has everyone running after gold and global scent. The stars of perfect delusion, my mind which is an unloved charm.

To be depressed, it feels like the bed sheets are about to explode—and what of the three day urges to make love to a girl, I’m drawn to my own suffocation—and sex will never be, if all that defined me as a human—urges to make love to a girl would always have me drowning.

I hope to continue breathing—but this mind won’t let me. Royal sperm wants to flow out of my recurring body—and the teenage scent that had me flying. What is life and what is death—now that merry and misery is all but an art in its craft, those that the commoner never comprehends.

-Yogesh Chandra