bedroom door
(foto)
sometimes it’s just a call for desperation, not attention or even empathy, for every question they throw right in front of my bedroom door. they often ask me to describe the things I keep here in my bag–whenever I tell them apart from everything else, I always like the chewing gums–only because I fail to execute the curiosity they’ve bottled up in every question I get everyday.
I hate that idea.
I don’t like to explain how mysterious, creative, weird or funny myself is when I’m around people I’m not comfortable with. it’s distracting to have few people asking me how my perspective works as it shows how desperate myself is to get validated for the things I only want to say to myself.
I see my life in such different ways, I know.
but I’m afraid I can only drag this to the point, as if it’s a boost to lose the stupidity and practicable to say: everyone comes with different perspectives and definitions.
when midnight starts to crawl in with this flashlight from the back of my phone, the moon then sings me lullabies to haul all the words clogging in my throat as it crumples my dreams into tiny ashes.
I would still wait for the shadows along the corridors to walk away–leaving no footsteps–with the energy and fears I have put under my sleeves. I can hear my own breath as I get up from where I hide, wondering what Time is it now?
and the fear I have inside my chest almost topples me to the floor because the room is too dark that my eyes only depend on the light peeking from under the door. I would then go out when no one’s watching, slowly picking up the papers on my entrance.
I always think it can be such a relief to stay outside of the room when everyone’s sleeping, that I hardly notice how ignorant the person I can be as I let the demons in at this late hour. I don’t want them but I let them in. I can’t hate my dreams but I don’t want to remember any of them either…
I hate that idea.
I don’t like to explain how mysterious, creative, weird or funny myself is when I’m around people I’m not comfortable with. it’s distracting to have few people asking me how my perspective works as it shows how desperate myself is to get validated for the things I only want to say to myself.
I see my life in such different ways, I know.
but I’m afraid I can only drag this to the point, as if it’s a boost to lose the stupidity and practicable to say: everyone comes with different perspectives and definitions.
when midnight starts to crawl in with this flashlight from the back of my phone, the moon then sings me lullabies to haul all the words clogging in my throat as it crumples my dreams into tiny ashes.
I would still wait for the shadows along the corridors to walk away–leaving no footsteps–with the energy and fears I have put under my sleeves. I can hear my own breath as I get up from where I hide, wondering what Time is it now?
and the fear I have inside my chest almost topples me to the floor because the room is too dark that my eyes only depend on the light peeking from under the door. I would then go out when no one’s watching, slowly picking up the papers on my entrance.
I always think it can be such a relief to stay outside of the room when everyone’s sleeping, that I hardly notice how ignorant the person I can be as I let the demons in at this late hour. I don’t want them but I let them in. I can’t hate my dreams but I don’t want to remember any of them either…