Lukewarm, a quick comfort?

I want to write
I don't seem to find any other alternative
And I'm maybe glad I don't
No soul
No medium
Nothing else

It's been too long
This lump in my throat
This helplessness
This unacceptable adamant longing

I always wanted the extremes
No lukewarm
Either striking hot or maddening cold
It's maddening cold now
Maybe there is well being in lukewarm?
I have no idea

I don't seem to know what is going to happen with me
A million years of evolution
A million theories about the beauty of life
A million moments that makes me  question everything
A million uncertainties

I don't expect anyone to understand
For my side of the story,
Only I will know best
And probably, the only way out is writing it.
By myself
For myself
To myself

A billion sonder lives living their moments right now around the world
A lush green insect in a pond
A president looking at his daughter play
Lovers uniting after years
Babies smiling in their pure bedding

And this sonder?
Writing so that she could wrap herself in words and metaphors and be lukewarm, maybe for once.

Why is lukewarm, so easy to people?
And not to me?


 ©Deekshita Srinivas
   (hidden in the notes, read and reunited with the state of mind and out here, because yet again, the only escape is to write.)

01:00 am then.

00:21 am now.