the prison I live in

Where can I start? I have no motivation to write yet I am writing; none to live yet I am existing. It's so painful to write when you have no motivation. It's even more painful to not write. Though I revere cinema as the supreme art, writing is something I am into. And it also helps me translate my vision into a more legible alignment.
But here I am, sitting on my bed, living off in the prison of my own thoughts. I am bound to multiple things and I am liking the lack of freedom I possess. My life has lost all order and will. Now, I am no better than a dead body except that others don't miss me. I want to die but am not looking forward to killing myself because I don't have the will to die either. But I wish death somehow spreads its hands and takes me into its lap. Though how silly of me to humanize death! Don't get me wrong by thinking that I mean death as something supernatural. But sure is it not human. It is almost opposite to what is considered human. 
Death is the indifference of the universe to which all the human parameters do not matter. Death is the liberation of the prison we live in if we look at it that way. However mundane and twisted life might be, we all live it off as an obligation. Do we have any other choice? I think not. One might beg to differ with this idea but that's what life is, doing things to the moment you die. The acceptance of the indifference implied to us by our own perception of the universe is the liberation from this prison. And our dear Death is what triggers the doubt required to accept that. 
I was born and am not possessing any will to kill myself and those are the only two reasons why I am still alive. That, by all means, suggests that I am not happy doing this. This is the suffering we unleash onto ourselves by thinking that this life is to be lived to its fullest. As there is no boundary to what life can be, you will have the void inside you waiting to be filled by your futile attempts.
Wishing that death occurs to me!

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