I want to smile, jump up and down,
be happy but the smile doesn’t crack open neither does my teeth.
I want to scream but have no voice
yell but I am static.
I want to run but my legs are frozen, tied with an empty cord.
Handicapped by the stillness of the day
the events of yesterday, the turbulences of the has been runs through.
I want to turn around and just like magic
at flick of my finger glue fuse my being to where it supposed to be,
free of miseries
of empty stories.
No way to run
No rivers to cross
No bridges to walk to.
I want to crack up a smile but the tube has no filter.
I am calling him a she and she a him
treating mornings as evenings and evenings as mornings,
a slew of new days of wanting’s
desires of a make believe story
a bag of chips of uncertainties of tomorrow.
©️ Angela Aguiar
I could not wait to get older. I now, sometimes, wish I was a kid again.
My mom made sure I knew my A’s from B’s.
We had toys, games and riding my bicycle was my heaven on earth.
We actually knew our neighbor’s names.
When I knew I was going to get a whooping, I would run out faster before I could scream, run!
People broke crayons and not hearts.
Rock & Roll was the thing.
The birds I used to draw look like flying mustaches.
I did not have to worry about owning the newest technology.
We had to rewind the VHS and not just skip to a scene.
I thought dust bunnies were a real animal.
I climbed on the trees, played with boys and somehow it was alright.
I would have never imagined that I would be where I am today.
Internet? What was that?!
Life was so much simpler!
Our lives are filled with colorful pockets of hours.
Hours of joy. Hours of mourning. Hours of glory. Hours of bounding. Hours of sorrow. Hours of learning. Hours of envy. Hours of greatness. Hours of imperfections. Hours of growth. Hours of enlightenment. Hours of prosperity. Hours of condemnation. Hours of disgust. Hours of pain. Hours…
Hours of suffering.
Yes, suffering. A current of little dots permeating our lives like school of fish bundle up in a can. Fictional groceries camouflaged in a shopping bag. A left turn signal in the middle of an highway. An imaginary whopper of make-believe junction of impulsivity that makes bed, uninvited.
Suffering is the glue that keeps on sticking without the adhesive. The red mat on the corner of our living rooms. It is never in vain but rewarding and it comes with its calling card.
Hours of glory!