Lifeless Memorabilia

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Day 310

Everyday is emotionally well-spent.

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I stare at these corners and walk back from a dream. I fill these sheets with entangled bliss and confusion. I shiver from the cold innocence childhood has bestowed upon me. I'm buried inside my rampaged clothes from all the years I've grown too tired to cycle. But I breathe in the smell of comfort under a chaotic ceiling. None of it answered my prayers. Where I'm from is a curse enveloping my weak bones and corrupting my lungs like a sin. I slept unbending in a lonely weep. And then, morning sun will bathe me with a cruel truth—I'm staring again but not from a slumber I thought I have fallen to.

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My skin is tugging fear as if an onslaught through the years of questioning an empty sky. And I hid halfway from the light because it's not too gone from half-nightimares engraved in my existence. Pain attests to ruins such as reality from every broken inner child, after all. And it's on paper where my desperation is rewritten after numbing birthdays and pseudo wishes. I seek for time and days where I could freeze them forever. I should never stumble with yet another century of suffering. My destination must only be here and not in the words echoing in my father's mouth. These yesterdays only shatter into specks of dust of regret and hating wonders. But I feel them every day.

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_{Photo by Amy Humphries on Unsplash}

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What could I have grown to be if there were no deceit and deprivation? If I were but a different mind, would the world be so willing to change tides? As a kid, I wouldn't dare say these things. I was a forgotten soul. I live by the beauty of nature that mothered my guilty wounds. I had my chance to see the sun in an exquisite light. Perhaps, I'm not a wanderer but I dreamt of all magical things that leave no space for impossibility. Even unimaginable darkness for a fleeting memory of peace exists in my whimsical mind. Long before it resided within the roots of my consciousness, I'm torn asunder. While I dread joy through an innocent dream, misery is the kind of hometown that tears me one by one.

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My, but these shattered limbs do own me, don't they? It's as hideous as what I see in my head. I need a fire to light them up. I need a cry. I need to shout. I need not a shelter that suffocates the smoke coming out of my burnt-out flesh.

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But I still stare with disdain. I taste acid rising from my throat but they subside in an endless wave. I lack open wounds but I'm a body without nerves. How do we heal from this? And I feel it in my bones once more—the grip of a fault passed onto me as a legacy resonates with anger. It's screaming. But it bled for mercy so the pain could happen in my lifeless limbs. I fear too much of this numbness will swallow me whole. I fear this whole thing—the paranoia knocking in my brain. So normal and existing as if innate as blood.

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I'm scared of a lot of things I laugh and cry about to people. I dishevel excess worry from someone so close because I cannot bare my own downfall. As a kid. As a teenager. As a growing adult. As I'll be elderly. I have been this sickly and I pay no mind but I want to bawl my eyes out. I want to feel disappointment for the first time again. So I could talk about it and not keep it pent up until I explode. So I could keep the questions and ask them myself. So the only generational wealth I could pass on is none of what I own. None of the brokenness and fears mending my brain.

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But I'm not a superior being that manipulates the living. I'm a suffered-flesh in search of survival. I feel all kinds of filth in my skull and the fright-stricken pulse coursing through for years. And all I do is run 'til I have no roads to step on. I have tried to run as far from the holes beneath where I land until I have forgotten my oblivious soul. Just to somehow untangle the noises and mess I carry with me. Have you ever held anticipation and pain in your hands as if a halt to your breathing? The struggle I have fed my senses like a revolving spike. It is despair, beads of it, threatening to bail like thunder but they'll be gone in a second. And back again as if haunting me awake. As if I don't want to rip myself open even from my own hands.

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An ugly feeling like a tiny prick of a needle but endlessly is how it aches. I see the ruin gradually becoming one with my skin but I have not awakened in years. How would it feel to be like a rock? Lifeless yet remaining. A constant of nature but I can hear the winds like a child. But I will be another loop of fate. No matter what litanies I instill in my veins, chaos I keep in my pocket, or fears I water from my mind—I have lived a dying soul. I cycle and stare and exist in a ruthless loop triggered by no means of murder but only a breadth of something so small from something so certain.

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@rks.wuhdrelis

_{A warrior of liberty. With ink stains on her mind and soul. Maayong adlaw! This page contains the information you might want to know about the author. She goes by the name Arques and is under the username @rks.wuhdrelis. She lives in Cebu, Philippines, and is a proud Bisaya. Arques is an 18-year-old girl, on a mission to her dream college and a writer wannabe is her reputation... Read more.}

_{Note: It's been a whole month since I last posted. Hello, again.}