The Boy I Miss Most

By
I miss quiet moments with myself, when my wit creates prose, not solutions. In these minutes of solitude, I'd free-write something like "You put the art in artificial" while listening to music redolent of my tears, like Stelle E Luna or Hanniou.

My mind wouldn't fester at the thought of pending status or wage claims or mending some half-assed entrepreneur's operational dysfunction at minimum wage. I'd exist in the context of my craft. I'd be an artist again. 

I consider every person I've ever known, loved, and lost—all those chapters of my life that ended with me hanging from the cliff. I gaze at this broad selection of muses, all of whom I've revived with lyricism. That's when I realize that the boy I miss most is myself. 

I used to be the artist, before I became the concept of some equation, a variable to be solved. I used to feel love; now I feel myself yearn for it. Part of me feels at home here. And part of me thinks home is something you must run away from. 

Popular Posts

Diary Entry

By
I think I confide in literature as one confides in a friend. My screams are inaudible on these pages. Here, pain can cinder without catching flame. I know the pressure of meeting absence where I once found closure as my words know the pressure of my pen. I have reached a point in my life where I am one with isolation.  My spirit feeds on betrayal, and it has for some time. When I breathe in, it isn't air. It's animosity. I envy people who say they hate no one. I envy children because they're innocent. I envy Christians, too, because they pretend to forgive. I can't even do that.  All this emotion, all this rage, and yet the only person I wish death upon is myself. If only because I don't want to be here when the idealism dies. I'm not suicidal, but sometimes I lie in bed with my eyes open and imagine myself passing from this life. I'd die alone, but I'd die quietly. Until then, I confide in my prose, for my prose is my expression. 
Read more

I Write This In Hope That You'll See It.

By
As I relentlessly pursue what most would call my delusion, I am far too yielding to you to let you go. This eclipse between dignity and infatuation cannot be explained, only justified to an unreasonable extent. Yes, I am running from something, but I'm still running to you. Yes, I am insecure, but only because I was taught to be. Where you see me clinging to fiction, I see my refusal to settle for what's in front of me.  Just to know you, to learn you slowly— that  is my desire. It's not about status, and it's not about appearance. It's about my enthrallment with your personhood. I'd never ask for more than one moment—one to listen, to be near, to be present—to show you more of myself in the hope that you'll see in me a glimpse of what I see in you.  Inadvertently, you've blurred the line between desperation and devotion. Whatever it is, I stand by it. Not because it's good for me. Not because I see a future. I'm still mulling over whether I even...
Read more