Sometimes my life is a shabby imprint of the one I was so sure of attaining. Sometimes everything seems fragile, temporary. Sometimes I allow everyone to opine and decide my worth. Sometimes the only place I feel safe and content is tucked under the covers, at midnight, reading a book in the yellow glow of a book-lamp. Sometimes it takes supreme effort to say out loud even a single word when the right ears are missing. Sometimes I escape into nostalgia. Sometimes I fear that my little world will sprout wheels and leave when I am sleeping. Sometimes I sit and watch my life fall over the edge, calmly detached, as the shock and helplessness get blunted by the frequency. Sometimes I wait endlessly for something, anything, to happen. Sometimes I feel trapped. Sometimes an absence is achingly palpable. Sometimes I wish you will come and take me away. Sometimes I feel uninspired. Sometimes I feel lonely.