About the winds that went stale!

Minions! I hate pickles. there is something very melancholic in the way pickles are made, pushed into tight spaces, submerged in salt and vinegar and acid, having the water dry out of you and replaced by the pungent vichyssoise of burning chemicals..... no wonder they emerge in colours close to those of imagined zombies! There is something very eerie about the slow character of the process of making pickles, time has a frightening effect on things kept tight, though it seems an oxymoron, the slow passing of time is the most powerful accelerator to the festering of things under our skin. For some reason, the expression "put a lid on it" reminds me of pickle jars; I used to talk a lot, I used to express and connect and share, granted not all but the important things.... now I just put a lid on it. It's easy to turn the green clear of a cucumber into a dead swamp of a pickle, you just need to add feelings that burn and put a lid on it. To turn the healthy pink of my heart to a muddy swamp of fear, add salty constrictions and put a lid on it. It used to be easy to wade through the lakes of my mind, now I get stuck in the stifling stale air... and I still put a lid on it. Minions, open me up before I shrivel into a zombie coloured lidded jar. 

About the rooms and drawers!

Minions! I come to you exasperated. I find my self breathing out "I don't know" quite often, which only serves to wondering what exactly don't I know. I lose track of my questions to the point I don't realize I'm walking tight ropes till I reach their ends... if I could build pillow bridges between the rooms of my head, I could maybe find my questions and only then get past my "I don't know" sighs. Minions, connect me clearer!

About communication, mouth jails and shaky bridges!

Minions, I come to you extended to a self enforced halt! I have watched my heart boil and spill over in the spaces of my chest a million times over, a kind of spilling over that mysteriously and quickly turns into upward avalanches of words that unconventionally choose to go up stream clutching to the grooves and specific indentations of my vocal cords. Most of the times my head gets jealous, why are those words so big, why do they try so hard to be spoken, what is it that makes them brim with layers and fold themselves to fill the shoes of their meanings and surpass the depth less surfaces of their letters... why don't the brain words go up in flames too... and in those most of times, the head, in what might be its only senseless childish act of petty sabotage, stops those avalanches... halts them at the very tips of my tongue and watches them tumble over each other in hollow victory! In terms of myself, I am the hesitant head whose fear of burning out is wrapped in petty jealousy, I am the heart that keeps expanding only to suddenly shrink and ooze all its light out... I am a guru of ajar doors and words just barely left unspoken! Minions, expand the overlapping of courage and cowardice of my warring halves, align me with me and as ever be there! 

About facades, obsessive behavioural patterns and shape-shifting pills!

Minions! I come to you on a shaky psyche. When someone is chronically scared, things and people that make them safe become addictive and escaping becomes as instinctive as it is demoralizing. Fear becomes an underlying propeller of everything that is perceived as "me"! Sometimes I hate it when people call my name, it builds more walls when I say yes, it makes a liar out of me when I say yes...... Minions, you need to be undone!