Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.

The shame, always comes at the worst time.

"I hope you've been on my side all along, not just trying to get me under your thumb."

— Brendan Frye, Brick (2005).


Finding an explanation for every matter which boggles the mind seemed endless. Every equation never equates to a solution, the scientist concludes. The exploration beyond the depths of the mind had become too mainstream, the only way out was to sail towards the sky.

There wasn't going to any plea of help to be heard at all. It was unusual for the scientist to make a sound of disdain, a moan of pain, or even a squeak at all. The mind of the intellect didn't require sound, it contained words—not of wisdom, but of adequately planned routine and a mad fixation on quirks that quickly fixed the noise that would not simply just stop rumbling in the head.

Counting the number of times each thought bounced off the walls of the mind, the contained emotions that tagged along would not have known how to chase after it. It was to no surprise that the scientist chose to forget the existence of the latter and focus on counting the angles of each bounce, consistently recording it down and predicting the next bounce. No sense of achievement accompanied any of the accurate predictions, as it was always about making calculated guesses about the next.

An unfortunate predicament it was, for the scientist did not seem to want to stop to oil the gears of the mind, and the incoming attack of rust would soon hurt the process of thinking on its own. Losing interest in almost all other ideas and making the choice to consider the perspectives of one single action—a bounce—and taking note of every view of it in a self-convincing motion of predicted triumphant feelings, where emotions on its own had become a negated and negligible aspect.


Oh, there ain't no rest for the wicked.
Money don't grow on trees.
I got bills to pay.
I got mouths to feed.


Enclosed in an area, somewhat claustrophobic, the temperature of the room had been reduced and the lights were slightly dim. Some might have called it romantic—if they were suffering from Stockholm syndrome, that is; Some might have found it a terrifying experience—if they were found out by the people outside of the space.

On a brighter note, the confined area hosted a slightly worn out recliner beside a vintage rocking chair that was position next to a work desk clustered with an organised mess—a whirl of chaos stacked in piles of systemised disorder—albeit the low intensified luminosity within.

Feeling caged within four walls, the door appeared to be non-existent—hidden behind a mirror which compelled a self-reflection each time the idea of making an escape appeared. A distorted view of a promising terrain of sunshine and optimism seen through a window was plastered on the wall, ready to be torn down at any moment.

Redemption of the last bit of dignity followed the self-talk that co-existed with the companionship of the remaining concrete walls scribbled with fragments of thoughts, ambitions, and abstractions of self-conceptualised theories.

Making hypotheses was one thing. Administering the brainstorm process of ideas into a study with no participants was another. Although undeniably the research initially came into perspective as a simple task of record and analysis, it soon suggested an eventual acceptance of deniable difficulty. Anticipation regrettably announced the apparent atrocity about a futile inspection of the restrictive variables. Seemingly concluded as an insinuated notion of impossibility.

Yet again, the scientist who had relinquished the role of an experimental physicist began doing the math. Counting with fingers to keep track of the infinite promises made upon wishful thinking and falsified fantasies, it eventually simmered into a cognitive behavioural process of change.

Building a hierarchy of sandcastles in the blank void of air levitating above the bustling mind, it was eventually obvious that the answer was right there. The physicist-turned-scientist-turned-mathematician-turned-therapist now realised that shouting for help wouldn't work. The figures in the sandcastles were indefinitely imaginary, and the four walls were sound-proof, wind-proof, and a proof of everything almost non-existential.

Standing directly in front of the door, and staring at a reflection of a person haggard and tired out from everything that had just occurred in such a short span of time, the hand reached out to the palm seen in the mirror. A push was all it needed for the door to open, and a few steps it took to be completely present outside of the confined area; but it never happened.


And ain't nothing in this world for free.
No, I can't slow down.
I can't hold back.
Though you know I wish I could.


And that's when it comes to realisation that it would all end today, as a fresh chapter will then begin tomorrow without the hunger, pain, and self-inflicted, or deflected abuse.

It has always been an entertainment of thoughts to leave, but never quite the determination in existence to actualise it. No longer is it about sacrifice, nor is it about how everything had gone too far beyond pushing the limits; it had gone downhill a long time ago but the pride was too high up to have it vocalised.

Courage to understand the boundaries of the expiring patience and admit the facts of a well-planned exit through dragging the other towards the door before taking the step out of the door and slamming it in the face of the one lying on the floor begging for a release. The door is locked and the victorious walks away from it with a cowardice spirit—finally happy for that personal space that has been requested for but has never been awarded because of self-induced confinement—and feeling that it is best to now just imprison the one who is always at fault.

And it comes a time, where the anger gets put down, once again, and the four walls are what is left to watch once again.


Oh, no, there ain't no rest for the wicked.
Until we close our eyes for good.


Take me out for steak and wine,
hopefully our interests continue to align.

Take me out for late nigha new meaningt walks,
enjoy the breeze and our little talks.

Take me out to the gardens for a picnic,
remind me again how much we click.

Take me home to watch a movie and cuddle in bed,
give (500) Days of Summer a new meaning instead.



Ask me what I'm thinking about,
I'll tell you that I'm thinking about
Whatever you’re thinking about.
Tell me something that I'll forget.


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