Last one at the end of the circle

It’s another season, and the planets have run down that same old circle. You’ve packed your bags and moved up to another mess, and me, it’s come down to me kneeling on the ground gasping for air, unable to breathe, dying. This is me. The one who’s supposed to get it. But what do I know? Squat. I’m afraid I’m nothing but worse than you. Fearful, insecure, irrational, crazy, and troubled. The sun’s going down and the darkness is closing in. The walls are coming together to contain me in this jail. I’ll still be here. My hair matted and in knots, my clothes ripped. Crying and drooling saliva. A being without a shell. A bundle of nerves. I’ll be rolling on the floor here, tasting dirt while tears burn my eyes. I can raise my arms out in a prayer. I can rip my clothes away and try to feel as human as I can; try to feel the air on my skin, the way the sweat drips down the side of my stomach. But I’m afraid no one wants to listen to the ultimate loser. I’ve failed. All these years of building myself up, only to go toppling fucking down. I’m afraid the only place to fall into is the absolute rock bottom. But I’ve fallen way too hard, too many times. And no one ever did it to me. Who’re you trying to prove yourself to sweetheart? You are the queen, the one who catches the sun between her fingers. The one who holds her head up high and stands on the mountain top looking at the big picture. You hurt her.

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Surely dying

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.

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The animals have become our puppets…

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

Everybody’s hurting

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.

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Climbing ambitions

Chugging energy,
Heart on fire
Too many questions, too little time
Climbing ambitions
Vanishing restrictions
Instinctive, fueled by passion, high on drive
Restless
Burning with curiosity
Honest motives
Direct and raw
Uninhibited and fearless
Happy
Wise and confident
Worshiping the answers

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