Rain-song

Of countless wounded nights, dream parched endless nights. Ouestions keep pouring, I try in vain to fill in the empty cabinets of my afternoons with the questions, hesitating to answer. Hesitating. The roads to my happiness are twisted. It's all like a line puzzle wherein I spend all the endless nights trying to straighten them and find my way out. Trying? May be I've given up, given up everything. One survives, ccan one survive without hopes, wishes and beliefs? May be one can, a non-confirmist may be an atheist. What am I?
My soul is a perinnial source of pain for me. It loves wallowing in momentary sorrows and then performs some kind of ablution in the putrid pain. The stench never leaves. I love gifting myself loads of pain and something is really funny about buying myself pain and gifting it to myself.