A Page From the Diary of Gregor Samsa

The biggest problem is when something that was the reason for the happiness and joy, the reason for the smile after a long and tiring day and hours of silent mental fights and gloomy hours of loneliness becomes the reason of doubt and restlessness. Whatever it is. A result of too much expectations or an unresponsive end of the the rope that creates anxiety. Slow, slow, slow deep breathing as I write. All of the tens of arms and legs devoid of power and fervour as I write. No muscle wants to move as my gut sinks endlessly. All these days I have been locked up in my room. Every effort to make others habitual of my horrifying spatial contours of not only my physical appearance but also the emotional wreck inside of me. But she is the only one who seems to be trying. Even the upside perspective that pumped some extra litres of blood into the head has become ineffective. The apple is still stuck on the my back. It is the reason for sickness I believe . I am disinterested as ever now. Everything is alright. Just alright. No reservations for anything in my mind. Slightest tickle to the heaviest blow. I am dead inside.