Many mornings my alarm blares into my ears, I awake from my slumber with a heavy hand to drunkenly slap the snooze button. I should’ve gotten up by now. I don’t want to leave the comfort of my room. The familiar and home-like place I call my own. Clothes scattered upon the floor, bed sloppily made. Sometimes I wake up and I don’t want to be here. Sometimes wake up wanting to be held by my mother. Sometimes I wish I never do wake up from the nightmares. They’ve become so frequent that I no longer am afraid of them. I am chased as a child away from home into the arms of a stranger who tells me it will be alright. I want to believe that this is me growing up and picking up myself as a child and seeing that everything will be alright and that nothing will harm as long as I see the logic in it. Sometime I sit alone in my room and the music doesn’t distract my thoughts so I start to make love to the paper with my wife, the pen. We make enigmatic portrayals of the loneliness and pain in my life. She is filled with the climatic rhythms of my pains and releases them onto a blank canvas that is now filled with raw emotions and imagery. I write it to keep my heart pure, I write it all to show the world that they aren’t alone in they’re feelings. I express myself hoping that others will be able to as well. I’m not some therapist or omniscient person; I’m a human being who’s just as fucked up as the next and full of unexplained emotions and pains. All I want to do is to be happy and live my life.
It’s hard to live life when often times you don’t feel like you belong. Sometimes I wake up from the most beautiful dream and I realize that reality is completely pitiful.