I’m like a broken Nokia 1100 phone – they no longer make parts to fix me.
I am a badly, broken person, – at once a child lost in the labyrinthine landscapes of my head, and also a malformed adult cast away as an infant, and fated to wander the wilderness of loneliness until the twelfth of never.
I am the one you should never come by, the one that love cannot save.
This week, I will break up with my girlfriend. Another exit through the revolving door of the harsh glare loving me causes.
This is my pity party; I weep with strangers.
On my way to work every morning, I walk through a pavement constantly bestrewed with ash and cigarette stubs. I remember it now because I am those stubs. I am the full thing you can never consume whole. You smoke up the good part, the one that makes you smile – the generosity and soft-heartedness – you take it, you don’t want that lost. Then, the harder parts – the unprettiness, the need for quiet and calm, you let it fall on to the pavings and walk away.
I am Sparta’s rejected children; we have no fight in us.
Yesterday, i watched, captivated, as my 5 year old nephew made useful looking stuff out of the mess of paper, glue and broomsticks jumbled around him. His mother leaned by me and whispered that her son would be an engineer and build things that people have never thought to -like a bridge that dances, office buildings that laugh and homes that feel like a million truthful welcomes.
She is like our father, who tried to build a space station in our backyard from rotted logs, junk cables and condemned steel. They take messes and try to make something beautiful from them. Her son is like her and our father. That gene missed me.
The messes I have made have always involved my heart, and the most beautiful thing from those messes are the putrescent carcasses of unrequited love filling my memories.
I think of places I want to be, and will never be to. Places that have white sand beaches that stretches beyond the horizon and taste of unselfish romances; places with ocean fronts with the water colored peace. Places that have memories of enrapturing desires writ on the walls of their stately houses, Places that feel like a mix of love that will never give up on you, and love that will only ask of you the willingness to let go.
I am a dying child trying to crawl to a place i may never reach – home.