some people cry. some people sleep. some smoke and do drugs. others go out for a run. others read books to pass the time. we have varying tendencies, but at the end of the day we know we are all just yearning for one thing: escape. (escape from certain memories, certain losses, certain responsibilities. escape from the eternal misery of life as it is.) these are our vanishing acts. we live by not living.
When I start wishing for things I can never have,
that’s when I know I’ve read enough for the night.
My mouth will taste like places I’ve never been to,
and my mind will lie to me, as it always does.
Symbols will flash across my skin like restless tattoos,
daring me to leave, to never look back,
to wake up in a different bed every morning,
knowing full well I can’t.
My heart will burn like it’s made of paper,
because everything, all this, looked better in my head.
I used to want this to be a poem about hope,
but how can I lie to myself?
My record is full of hours wasted
looking for things that aren’t even there.
Here, the impressive lack of variety.
The dutiful adherence to routine.
A cry to be somewhere else.
Not here. Not this.
I’m still afraid of the ocean,
when all I want is to be afraid for it.
I’m still afraid of the silence,
but is it not my best defense?
I’d like to think about hope,
but I only remember the kittens my father buried
in a vacant lot,
how “their bodies will make the plants grow,” was supposed to be any consolation.
All I remember is leaving,
and the suffocating grip of still not knowing how to let go.
Help me be more than this, I plead.
And then watch me leave.
Maybe more, maybe more.
Maybe this is nonsense.
Everybody knows that the notes we write
our future daughters are just the things we’re not
brave enough to tell ourselves.
They tell you it’s okay
when you try to be brave.
Nicole, 17, Philippines
I am studying Journalism at the University of the Philippines-Diliman. My heart belongs to the works of author Neil Gaiman and singer-songwriter Ben Howard, and to the endlessly absorbing struggles of living. I've never been to a concert in my life. I can't swim, but I am in love with the ocean."Comfort came against my will; every story must grow old" is the inspiration behind my blog title. It's a line from Ben Howard's song called 'Black Flies.'
Talk to me, will ya?