I can say a lot about that year and maybe I won’t.
I felt. I thought. I saw.
I hated. I screamed. I broke.
I laughed. I cried. How cliché. How unoriginal.
I dabbled here and there with secret friends. I deflated and I existed. I exist still. Why? Why exist at all? Why am I in a loophole? Over and over again?
At times, life just felt like a reel of film spinning, playing on empty, and making that repetitive clapping sound. Clap. Clap. Clap. Plastic on metal. Or something like that.
That year was a noisy one. It was eventful. It was great. It was horrible. It was everything I did not want it to be, and it was something that I wished it to be. And remain so. Somehow.
It is just a year like any other. It never is.
The pain just drags on. The failures. The disappointments. The experiences praised over inflated egos and white lines.
Music in speakers. Masks on the floor.
Time-lapsed. I see.
It was a year that exhausted me. Brought fears into my eyes, suffocated, emancipated and enslaved me.
Nobody really reads anymore. Nobody really cares. And it is ok. Caring is not an obligation. It is a choice, it seems.
We read/listen/hear/do/say/touch/manipulate/consume/love all that it is we want, that is not ours, or at least we think we do, for ourselves. Most of of all. That is just the way it is.
Feet cemented in viral mediums that take me nowhere. Stuck. Looking over an unreachable horizon. Through hollowed buildings. Piles and piles of garbage on the road. As if there was a destination. No wonder my eyes sting. No wonder I cannot breathe.
Translucent. I can see right through you and I am choked by the silence and distortion of it all.
Where have you been? Are you listening? Straighten your neck and look at me. I am not a ding on your phone. I am not an eager cursor.
I am not for granted. I am not for sale either.
I am getting old.