Look at the moon,I'm dead

Said my friend,so burnt out from the consumption of a neon culture we didn’t necessarily create for ourselves,but perpetuate,nonetheless.The moon looked huge from where we sat.We sat on some rocks,with a vantage view of the rows of shingle roofed houses we’ve lived among for a few years now.All of them aligned,identical,except for the different number plates behind the white picket fences guarding the well  manicured gardens.Paths for people to take evening walks on,but ones not meant for dogs to “dirty”.Are any of us human beings or just parts of a well oiled machine? Stepford wives and Complan children.

We munch on green apples dipped in peanut butter,sip on Caprisun,snack we think we’re consuming.In earnest,it’s the market consuming us.

It is a dog eat dog world,they say.

I dream of forests and wake up wondering why I only visit shopping malls instead of these seas of green I see only in a state of semi-consciousness.

Rubella Red

Plopped alone on my single bed,I stare at the length of my arms covered by a generous scarlet sprinkling of measles,as if staring at them long enough would make them vanish.I squeeze my eyes shut and pray that they do,but it's not happening.Yet again,I realise the magnitude of how little a fuck,people,especially adults give about each other.I have no where to sleep for the night,and in an empty hostel room,it's just my despair,my rubella covered arms and the awareness of my adulthood sharing space and a comfortable silence between us.
I'm alone with my thoughts again and the sound of them haunts me like a late Sunday afternoon when everyone is asleep and the corridor reeks of quiet.I realise I have caved in to rejection,caved in to the belief that my writing is not good enough for the couple of college societies that I thought I could have been a part of,that as much as I dislike going home,it is  symbolic of a screwed up sense of comfort.I've stopped looking for a physical sense of home,altogether because no matter how wonderful the people,how positive the atmosphere..there is bound to be a deep seated emptiness that cannot be forgotten.Like a dark room with soft music,when it's raining incessantly outdoors-a feeling so immensely beautiful,it has a sense of tragedy looming about it.I've come to realise,college isn't half the dream it's promised to be and just like school,there will be lecturers who will produce a physical reaction of fear in most of the class with mere words.Life almost never turns out as planned,planning is futile,it just happens-for better or for worse.It's quite a struggle for me to just stop and try to participate,before it fleets away in the blink of an eyelid,leave alone trying to control anything.
Maybe my words and dreams are tainted in the very hue my arms are-rubella red,bold.Maybe they aren't for most people to understand and maybe,this is just a mere consolation I'm trying to get by each day on.It is good enough to make it with the lack of any encouragement,making a mark might be difficult for me,but I just might be a phoenix,reborn from ashes and I just might be Sisyphus,rolling a stone up a hill,that I know will come crashing down the slope,anyway.There is much grace in being either of them,I suppose.The most essential fact that keeps me afloat on rocky seas,however,is that I still write.I write for myself,I write when I'm rejected and feel inferior,I write when I discover I might be an average,first generation literature student,I write for my loneliness and I write for my joy.I write because I've survived and I try,each day to make a little more sense of my survival.I write for my childhood self and the broken home I grew up in,the stories that need to be told.Despite not having read cannons like my classmates have or being on editorial boards and having published lengths of my writing,I write.
Because that's the point,isn't it? Making the best of what you've got.Like Scout Finch understood of what Atticus said to her about the best kinda folks being ones who make the best of what they get.

Sad kinda happy

                                                            

Looking at old photographs on the bathroom floor,the winter biting my ankle,cold to my bone.
The photographs form inverted images on my eyes that whirl to a psychedelic effect and the light falling on my eyes is not the same anymore.
It's us walking down a street,holding hands,fairy lights strung on the sides long after festivities have died..it's dark and pretty.So surreal,so empty.We sat in a cozy cafe where service was slow and time was never tired of being timeless,we din't want to go home that night..it was frozen warmth,a guarantee growing up never assured us of.
The air has a nip of November now,as we weave through potted plants on the pavement..winter is sunsets before you anticipate them,winter is time growing old,winter is letting go of the warmth of summer's palm.Maybe that's why I was never too keen about this season in the first place.Only the memory of summer gets me moving.
We blew bubbles out the sides of the auto,the wind blew them back at out faces.Teenage troubles din't matter on days like this,they din't even exist.It din't matter how screwed up it was to see a a beggar tapping on a Rolls Royce window in front of me..that same afternoon.
Sort of like when you sit on a terrace tank and look down on a world of miniatures and you could sit there all day watching clouds and airplanes and advertisement hoardings in the distance,and zone out because tomorrow wouldn't exist if you sat there long enough.
The gasoline rainbow sheen of the bubble popping on my face takes me to yet another place,
A baby pink bath tub,my four year old feet wouldn't reach the end and I wish I wouldn't be so small,
Now I can only sit in it with my feet huddled up beneath my chin,
it's sort of terrible how children are unaware that growing up doesn't always entail certainty,
but only more doubt.

Laced up corset full of secrets.

Happiness never looked like a flowery edged plate,with it's unusual curves pushed out like actual petals.They  had always told me it would resemble a classic,circular disc of a standard dinner plate.I looked so much,but never found even a shadow of a suppressed smile in those.
They never mentioned how longing would be painted a rose gold,and not streaked blatant crimson.
And in a generation when every little tragedy and every pretty nuance of  whatnot could be romanticized into the glory of a love song that falls soft into ears,singing them to conscious sleep...
They never hinted that wild roses could outgrow their bushes,instead of being taken care of or tamed.
 Weed out,so persistent-till they are taken notice of and deemed "beautiful".
Never suggested that the nightsky could fit into a teacup or one's fist,with all it's constellations of dreamy stars and nebulous dreams and wishes.

I found out anyway,found out for myself,when I let my feet dangle graciously over the edge-swish and swoosh.
Here we go,they said.Discovering all the truths unsaid.