My February prose on how I felt about my almost-monthly routine earlier this year:
As I embark on this journey of uncertainty, I am torn with anguish, plagued with the extremity of loneliness.
'Can I don't go?' is the rhetorical question that storms my little mind and wreaks emotional upheavals within me.
The sterile abode where a part of me is to lie renders my knees weak, feet hesitant.
The vile and callous object is the manifestation of Repulsiveness.
It has no sympathy for me.
After the abominable affliction, it departs with the smirk of a victor, leaving me drained of Life.
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