I’m sitting here on the empty Jacuzzi staring at the ceiling with water droplets spritzing near my face, as I try to feel fulfilled. In my room, I spray all types of scents to calm my senses but it just numbs me down. I have every material thing that I want and I make a lot of money for a chick who claims to not need a lot. I turn on the bright blue therapy light that mimics sunlight to feel like I’m sitting under the sun. I meet a lot of people every day whom I don’t call my own. I have the love of my two parents but I want a big family that’s fifty times bigger and will have my back. I have the guy that adores me but I also want one who doesn’t. I’m climbing the capitalist ladder but I believe in socialist type stuff. I’m maintaining my status as a whatever, but it’s just killing me inch by inch. I don’t take pills, smoke, or drink to cope but that doesn’t mean I’m happier. I can’t follow spiritual leaders and luminaries who say pretty things because in the end they’re just humans like me. I can’t support any religions with an open heart because they talk too much of discipline, but I’m fueled by instinct and desire. I have realistic aspirations now and still want to do significant things for the future, but I don’t if I don’t have to. I can have kids if I want to but I may just let my body shut down. There are twelve months in a year and eight of them are already over and I can’t get the past three or four years back.
Unconscious minds, robotic lives, synthetic food,
Industrialization, expedited technological progression, automation
The labor force driven by coffee and lack of sleep
Careless destruction of nature…
Children nurtured by media
Animals, our puppets
In the news yesterday, a girl accidentally killed her sister carelessly while drunk driving. She sounded apathetic when she talked. I felt sharp anger towards her. I thought she didn’t deserve this world nor this life anymore. She was a disgrace to society; a murderer of her own innocent sister. She seemed to sound crazy when she talked. She looked emotionless; it was as if she was possessed. She’s the type that no one will ever understand. She’s probably hurt. This world is full of hurt. Full of walking souls; miserable, in pain. In the end, I wanted to give her a hug. I imagined the faraway and numb look on her face.
I wanted to go home and hug my little sister. I’d give up a limb for her.
I got confronted at the bus stop several weeks back. It wasn’t a big deal but I still recall how I chose to remain silent and composed while the bus driver laughed.
I got yelled by the same guy for a mistake he made while he was inattentive. I’m sure he realized his mistake and felt bad afterwards, but I still got hurt.
When my mom yells at me due to frustrations in her own life, I know she’s not the perpetrator and nor am I the victim. I just know that sometimes we get treated as people’s punching bags. Sometimes it hurts being passive; people really may not know how sensitive I really am inside. It hurts me, and my eyes moisten in the silence amid darkness. But the sounds of crickets at night whisper to me that they really do know. My sensitivity is as clear as daylight; it really isn’t something that I could ever hide very well. Yet I understand why we get treated as punching bags. The perpetrators are hurting as much as the victims themselves. Everybody’s swimming in a sea of hurt. A dead man killed on the cross is a hurtful sight that’s inspired an entire religion. We’re all just walking around carrying our own stories and burdens. It’s a quiet world if we just let our minds hush. It’s a loving world if we just look into each other’s teary eyes.
The voice tells me to get into the elevator and to go to a certain floor. I do so as told. Instinct tells me to walk down the hallway. There’s promise of a grand prize; the greatest thing, the highest goal. There’s supposed to be something that I’ve always wanted at the finish. I’m told to open the door. I do so.
And there you stand, behind that door
wearing a black and white tuxedo. Your chiseled face looking even sharper against the shadows. Your creamy skin and shiny hair, contrasting each other. Your glass-like eyes, contracting in the spotlight directed at you.
You are fully attentive and looking at me,
but with a look of worry. Wordlessly, you give a notion that you want me back, that you’re begging for me now. That you’re willing to disregard everything for me and that I could too, for you.
But there’s something unkind, untrustworthy, and cold about this whole new setup. There’s doubt brewing in my gut.
There’s an uneven tune playing in my ears.
And there’s a sad, tragic, unstoppable feeling,
that I wished it were true.
It’s useless; every other emotion
that I’m feeling right now.
I don’t know where to find you.
I’m lost again.
I’m seeking beyond the pages printed with dry scientific words. I’m skimming through the shopping catalog plastered with fake beautiful faces.
It’s faster than the car ride that can’t seem to fly higher; tastier than a meal that just can’t satisfy.
This hunger, for strictly you.
smaller than a molecule in the furthest corner of a parallel, deep, dark universe. So much further than tomorrow morning
so nonexistent right now.
This night is cursed and callous,
Everything chokes of dust and death. My throat is calcified, and my skin is pale. I try and try to leave this place
but it’s in my face
like a wall of bricks. I stop and search across it with my fingers.
I don’t know where else to look from here. I’m standing, but I’m so quiet and small.
I’m a blind mice
running down a maze engineered with high walls. Speculated by scientists and the good citizens of the world.
I feel trapped
as if I’m crushed under a ton of weight.
There’s void; monochrome nothingness in my pitch black eyes.
This inevitable, hungry, saddening
That I can’t find you.
There was a boy she once loved. She fell in love with him when she was eight years old and he was in his little bicycle. He sped by her while she shyly walked to school. During recess, she saw him playing in the monkey bars with classmates, and after school, she’d spot his outgoing-self laughing and telling jokes to his friends.
She met him twenty years later, and he looked just as handsome, except older. He glanced at her with a mischievous smile and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She blushed, but was crying inside because of how hard life had gotten. He took her to the beach and they swam in the oceans together. He took her to the mountains and they hugged each other. He took her to the rivers, and they watched it flow in silence with her head on his shoulder. He took her everywhere, and she loved the thrill of it. She smiled ear to ear. They walked arm in arm.
They looked cute together. People never understood why they didn’t end up with each other. But truth be told, he was much too into pretty girls with big personalities, and she; guys with money. So the season turned and the clouds shifted their positions, and in no time the years progressed after they lovingly stared into each other’s eyes one night; unable to change what the stars had in store for them. That night, his beautiful eyes sparkled while he hid more want than anyone would ever want to admit, and her eyes–they tried to look positive; although she wished to never leave his arms.
Everyone wondered what happened to them afterwards, but most likely he found a pretty girl, moved on, and lived a big voluptuous life. But she, she died living alone forever. The tree and the leaves tell me that. Right around here they buried her in the grave, and an innocent bright flower blooms over it, for a few days in summer.
Catch me at the end of my blossom season. I’m still young, still viable, still lovable, take me
Before I turn too shrewd, too dry,