Month: August 2018

1: The most selfish thing

If I start listening to all the records left in my room (the kind of sit-down, respect the vision and artist and let all the music take over you as you breakdown on your bed slash mattress on the floor; realizing new lyrics and sounds and beats and secrets with each spin, that kind), I could finish them all before I leave. I pack things and intentionally leave no trace of me left behind. I ruin the last images of myself and seek to be a foreigner for the sake of being easygoing. I am this shell of something that I could have been. I was on this slow, inevitable decline pitted fast against me and everything I had ever lived for long before. Maybe we could start the 18 Club, but only for gifted kid burnouts and idiots who felt like they experienced love at fifteen.Today, waking up, I realized that I could not feel a thing at all, no matter how hard I tried. I think about the things wrong in the world, …

Elegy for Eighteen

  My scariest dreams aren’t the one where sleep paralysis takes over, my chest heaving like my ribcage is non-existent, or when late night thoughts revel for the person behind the body to recede. It starts as the most normal and real ones: me in the lecture hall, me in the midday sun and the narrow hallway curving against the rough of the street and the cement jutting out of brick, and then I try to speak. Consistently, sounds never come out; if they do, they’re hushed, almost muted. Then the panic sets in when my screams confess to no sound. Or coagulated ramblings. Helplessness is my biggest enemy when the later years of my life revolved clinging onto small things; the giants of emptiness in the form of myself and in the world around me, daring me to live. And I try, and I somehow do. Until the helplessness settles in, and the tiny efforts and battles I win against life sink further and further until they become nothing. My throat, constricting itself, the …