I get sudden outbursts, random instances – internally screaming;
get me out of here.
Whether it’s the place or it’s me, always me, I don’t really care anymore;
point me to the nearest exit.
This utopia is Goddamn perfect, beautiful, flawless with a living, breathing center – so pulsating and alive that my motherland, the country of my birth, pales in comparison. It does not help that of late, there is a steady, disruptive static noise pinging from there to miles and miles away, in the form of trivial and petty social issues that dominate national headlines day after day. In contrast, this utopia is stunning – industrialized, one might say – and polished – developed, another might be quick to correct – with citizens of sound, intellectual, patriotic, and progressive minds.
This utopia is flawless,
while my motherland reeks from the stench of corruption and hardened hearts.
they’re just two different cages.
Are you a prisoner of your mind, your wealth – your (fill in the blank)?
You decide which one to build a circus in and the kind of tricks you’d pull up your sleeves. You choose the companies that you entangle in kinship, companionship, and good ol’ lovin’. You decide what you want to live and die by.
I want to choose the me that I like best – she who does not merely exist, ticking away with each stroke of the clock. It’s the she who functions, desperately gasping for fresh air amid the torrential, heavy downpour; dysfunctional protracted limbs; well-worn hearts; and spilled words, so much and still, never enough.
She who is constantly at the precipice, always hungry.
I don’t know what I live for these days; what keeps me going; who keeps me going; what I aim for; what I hope for in this future that I cannot make out. I just feel that if the answer to any or all of them is school, then it’s no answer at all. I’m exhausted from trying, then failing, to conjure images from my mind to a blank canvas through sheer will alone. I’m frustrated at this stagnant and constant unrest, what a turbulent heart that I keep under layers of cover, claiming it’s the cold.
This utopia is so Goddamn perfect, what striking dichotomy against the rustic backdrop of my home country, whose walls desperately need a shiny new coat of paint and doorknobs that have long come loose from having endured strong winds and stormy weather. It is so painfully imperfect, yet the will to live keeps a fiery ember fierce and unflinching. To merely exist is a privilege, not an option. The will to survive is the fuel that resuscitates an adrift soul sorely in need of humbling.
This utopia is so Goddamn perfect, but I don’t want it. Someone else can make it into a home. I already have one. I already have one.
I just want to go home.
I just want to go home to myself.