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An update of the previous word | A suffix to your name to transfer ownership to change one’s | state as if to say I have nothing | to worry about as if there is no one | to worry about as in: Yes dear, I’ll gladly fetch | you your tea.
about you moving back to that classroom, which despite grilled windows and poor ventilation and hollow voices, was anything but prison. We were free within its enclosure, where names were forgotten religiously and images had potential opposites. And words, sensual but unmoving, and often brilliantly confusing.
about you moving back to that classroom, which despite grilled windows and poor ventilation and hollow voices, was anything but prison. We were free within its enclosure, where names were forgotten religiously and images had potential opposites. And words, sensual but unmoving, and often brilliantly confusing.
“Not exclusive to the misunderstood barbarians of the north nor the one-eyed, wooden-legged , parrot-on-shoulder men of politics. Often unjustifiable and inexcusable, save for the rare instances where one is forced to take what does not belong to him in order to survive… Plunder is a romantic word until the very moment one attains what he needs,” one tells me as he turns my room into a pirate ship.
that pushes you to purchase a plethora of books which, to the best of your knowledge, will remain unread on your floor for as long as your mother agrees to pay the internet bill. It is the excuse you use for not knowing that plethora is actually an over-abundance of something, not merely a lot of something. Say, a plethora of time better spent doing what you think you do best. Or, as pointed out earlier, a plethora of books to educate yourself with for the meantime. If only your mother will refuse to pay the internet bill. It, my dear helpless self, is convincing yourself that yes, you are making something out of your education – knowing fully well that you are not headed in the right direction.
helplessness is a word i dread, the way i dread becoming like you. i stare at you sagging on that big basket, faint, frail, so very frail, a pile of wrinkle-covered bones. granny, where has your flesh gone? you notice my eyes on you and turn yours on me, eyes hazy and tired. i recoiled; they chilled me. granny, is it icy inside? you turned 97 today, so i was told. count the hours in too, hours lengthy and slow. 97, breathing, alive, but what kind of life, granny, what life? sleeping, shitting, waking, a spoon-fed baby. can you even get up to enjoy sunrises, granny? i do not want your long years. i do not want your life. can you even call it a life, granny?
is what you feel when you’re stuck between choosing to do something (and risk breaking everything into pieces) or choosing to stay quiet (and letting everything fall into place or to pieces). but maybe that isn’t quite what helplessness is. maybe it’s more cowardice. but surely, helplessness is that feeling you get when you realize that the people you’ve been trusting your whole life have been lying to you for a while. and you want to be angry but you know that that isn’t going to help. you try not to get angry and end up trying to ignore what you just found out and keep it to yourself. you feel helpless because you badly want to tell others who are involved — who have a right to know the ‘truth’ — but you can’t because doing so may cause trouble. trouble which may be unnecessary. and so you’re stuck and you blame yourself for being a coward but really, you’re just angry because you can’t stand finding yourself helpless.
is the word that best describes the feeling you get when you find that you have fallen into an empty well of love. You scream for help but your voice does not escape the well. It simply resounds inside it until you are deaf with your own words. You struggle to get back up but its walls are covered with moss. There is no way up. There is no way out. And you wrap your arms around you and sing yourself a lullaby. This is just a nightmare, you think, this is not real. But you know that this helplessness is as real as real can get.
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is that bone-crushing feeling you get when your lover fidgets around while lying in bed with bed, randomly rambling about your little apartment and how humid it is, and how small your bed is. You begin to make him feel more comfortable despite your lack of energy. You try your best not to fall asleep because he hates hearing you snore. You want to get ticked off but you fear for your own life (your heart is suck a weakling). You do this, these, these things that he doesn’t even seem to appreciate. Then it hits you hard like a truck moving in the speed of light – you are no longer in love.