feebly done.

this is probably going to sound too selfconscious-- i think the room was never empty, nor was it lonely or without sound; it has windows though closelynetted and protected, it has walls and lively mess here and there. i try making an impression that i am this room so often. i am not. i don't readily welcome things inside my heart, there are no open space, my heart is limited- am i being too unjust to myself? i don't know, perhaps not. but i think i am too conceited, sometimes i think i don't "consciously" make a mistake or that i must be good in some way. "good" can be seen from so many angles. why do i forget?
there are just so many layers of reading to do; about people and lives and things around me. about myself... and about God. i am too pleased and fascinated with the surface-reading these days.
there was a dead mouse, thin and flat bellied
unwanted and unnoticed
she slowly grew up
and she made a lot of imaginary friends
she loved colourful and dull things
slowly she was blinded by streetlights...//
swishing, scraping noise hurt her inner ears
she heard of cancer one day
and she realised she was losing faith on
things that mattered
and that she couldn't differentiate between thingsthatmattered and matters
so she blamed the little hole she lived in
and sulked till someone came and fed her.