The inklings of an ending

Watching reruns old sitcoms on languid Friday afternoons,sprawled out with a glass of coca-cola,
my idea of freezing time.Like savouring comfort food.
It hits me hard that a few months down the line,I'll never be able to come back from school and wile away time watch television will never be possible again,and the knowledge hurts.
I stare at dappled sunlight on my ceiling on Saturday mornings,contemplating life in blank verse-
I stare at the sunlight long enough for it to look like the roof is growing wings,I never did enjoy magic realism too much.The point of living seems to be a non-existent dot.A period at the end of a sentence.
Propped up against the cold tile wall,swabbing a wound with a cottonball of Dettol,I hear the sounds announcing the arrival of night,as I think to myself "Is this all?"
And then,as if on second thought,I steal away an old,empty bottle of Musk scented Old Spice."Smell like a man" it reads..The bathroom sure smells like a macho man,then.
Again,I stare at the ceiling till it resembles one of a high-rise one with Fresco paintings,a museum's.
If I could close my eyes and transmograte,I don't know where I would go.All the hours seem just as hollow,the promising possibilities just as distant and lackluster.
I'm a giver-upper,I lose faith faster than the blink of an eye-lid,Don't take me too seriously,
Dear Life.

Laced up corset full of secrets.

Happiness never looked like a flowery edged plate,with it's unusual curves pushed out like actual petals.They  had always told me it would resemble a classic,circular disc of a standard dinner plate.I looked so much,but never found even a shadow of a suppressed smile in those.
They never mentioned how longing would be painted a rose gold,and not streaked blatant crimson.
And in a generation when every little tragedy and every pretty nuance of  whatnot could be romanticized into the glory of a love song that falls soft into ears,singing them to conscious sleep...
They never hinted that wild roses could outgrow their bushes,instead of being taken care of or tamed.
 Weed out,so persistent-till they are taken notice of and deemed "beautiful".
Never suggested that the nightsky could fit into a teacup or one's fist,with all it's constellations of dreamy stars and nebulous dreams and wishes.

I found out anyway,found out for myself,when I let my feet dangle graciously over the edge-swish and swoosh.
Here we go,they said.Discovering all the truths unsaid.