Sometimes, and I mean only 'some'-times, I get this urge to write about you and pour all my feelings on paper. Then I think I would rather have anyone dig their fingers through my skin, tear through it, make my body cross all thresholds of physical agony, and goad my heart out with their raw hands than confront this undulating, ceaseless, omniscient pain that your absence has left me with. How do I even express that you who raised me with your own bare hands, you literally were the backbone to my body, such that at times, I find myself unable to sit up, walk or do any of the normal things normal people do now that you are not here. Is this the kind of void, the hurt, they say, you carry with yourself all your life?
