I made it through

I made it through. I made it through. When I heard this, I thought I could cry. I sat there in the sunlight. My life had flipped 180. I crossed these things off my list. These things have been on my list for years. I promised myself I’d never go back.

But shit has a way of piling on, and this is probably what it means to be an adult. I’m caught between restless and tired. It’s sleep and go, and it doesn’t stop until I’m dead. At least, that’s what I figured.

Strange ideas keep popping up in my head. I think something’s wrong with me. I think it’s in my head, in my blood. I think something’s wrong with me but somethings wrong with everyone. Every night I feel that I’m being watched. I check the rooms to see if I’d find a stranger there. I know I’m delusional, but I know if things weren’t good, I’d believe them.

My car got smashed in. I called it hit and run but it’s probably Karma. That’s a strange faith I’ve found this year: fate and Karma, but no God. So I smile more and sigh a little less. That’s how I’m making sense of all this.

We drive through rain and desert. We’re listening to Frank Ocean. I think whenever I hear this song, I’ll think of this moment. I smell of cigarettes, but I tell myself I like this smell. We stink of sadness, and I’d like to imagine there’s people our age who never smelled this scent. But what do I know?

 

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The woods ring with running water and birds chirping. A layer of fog sleeps on the woodchips. Dew drops cling to the blades of grass. I’ve visited this place many times in my head, and each time I know I’m an intruder to its tranquility. The earth crunches beneath my feet, and I feel clumsier with each step. I fumble around these spirals. My eyes twist with them into obscurity. It is here I wait for meditation. It’s not easy for me to acclimate to the natural silence. I bring so much noise with me. My breathing is loud. My bones creak even when I sit because I won the genetic lottery. And there’s nothing to do, but to die in silence. The roots entangle my limbs. The soil eats my flesh, and I am my bones. Have you ever touched your cheek bone, and imagined the flesh stripped clean off them?

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I remember sinking my teeth into ribs. I yank away, and the meat rips clean off the bone.

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alanwrites

unadulterated writing straight from my head entiendoenglish@gmail.com