Rivers

One day I caught myself thinking: When is it acceptable to start using the phrase, “When I was young…” before you tell a story, when you stand at the transitional period of youth to adulthood. You’re not the same youth you were years ago. But you’re not yet the adult you strive to be years from now.

The next day, someone said to me, “When you were little…” to refer to a version of me that I remember like it was yesterday. And I realized then how much life has passed me by.

The term, “the good ol’ days” is a nostalgic expression I often laugh at. We could be living in our ‘good times’ now, but wouldn’t know until we reminisce on it years or decades from now. When I hear, “Enjoy your youth”, I never truly understood the layered complexity of that statement, until I hit the brink of society’s bridge.

Why don’t we appreciate a moment until once it’s gone? Feeling the breeze of emptiness as it slips from our fingertips before we can truly capture the purity of it. A purity that’s gone forever. That’s why living in the present, uncontrollably letting it unfold before our eyes, is crucial to our life’s purpose. It is important to process that the past in extinct, while the future does not even exist yet; Make the most of what you got now, before it becomes inexperience-able.

Sometimes, nostalgia is like a childhood friend coming back to town to say hello. But sometimes, it’s a wave of crazy mobs running towards you with their explosives, ready to retaliate before you can form a single sentence. It’s like the waves crashing onto the shore, except it turns into a tsunami and floods the entire city. Appreciate life’s bad as you enjoy its good, because one day it’ll be the butterfly in the wind that’s too fast for you to catch.

When my father cooks his chili, I feel the excitement rumble in my stomach. His chili is my favorite; It has the perfect blend of ingredients. The tender meat with a kick of spice, along with the small portion of beans my mother likes him to do even though he prefers to go without it. Topping it off with shredded cheese makes complements it perfectly. For an occasional special dinner, we will add Fritos where you can mix together or scoop out the chili with, to add a good crunch to the blend.

Chili is like an annual tradition. Every Halloween, we and the extended family gather at my grandmother’s house. There, is presented a table-full of deliciousness to feast on (Though the leftovers are the best part of the night), However mine, along with everybody else’s eyes, fall upon the pot filled with my father’s famous chili. It has trickles of its sauce running down to the stove, the spoon laid upon a napkin with chunky remnants from the previous scoop. So messy, yet so fulfilling.

Chili is communal. A few years ago, my town held a chili cook off. Anyone who attends, with the exception of a ticket, can walk around, taste all the contestant’s chili dishes and proceed to vote for which attempt was best. Along the way are brief rest stops or expensive drink stands, even little prize games for families and their children to play. I remember walking around with my family, tasting all the different textures and spices, (dis)liking some more than others. Some we flat-out hated, but that’s what adds to the experience. I remember the glaring sun, all of us sweating miserably as we circled around the event yet bonded like no other.

Being an adolescent girl in the American education system, dress code became almost a daily aspect of my day. I felt as if this code of conduct was extremely unfair, and had a subtle misogynistic tie attached to it. Almost everyday, I was taken into the offices to change my clothing; Conditioned to believe that my shoulders, or shorts barely exposing my thighs were too revealing and provoking to be worn in public. I would wear a baggy t-shirt and they still told me to stop wearing leggings. It felt invasive, almost one-sided- as the boys were simply told not to wear a muscle tank. A slap on the wrist was all they got, while my fellow sisters and I would see a list of our demerits that noticed for a disciplinary action.

Looking back now, I find it more concerning how I was letting grown, conservative adults deem my appearance to be sexual when in reality, it was them sexualizing my twelve-year-old body; Taking one look at me and following me around campus to bust me. It was embarrassing… It was like a walk of shame, going back and forth to the offices that held piles and piles of school merchandise ready to be worn. Eventually, I would hide from the staff and facilitator, praying my teachers wouldn’t examine me by next class. It was - and still is - maddening.

It was bittersweet. How can you hate someone so much, yet still want their presence around? This was a question I often asked myself. I couldn’t let go of you even if it meant my wrists broke from holding onto something that I knew couldn’t be fixed. I long for your memory, despite absolutely resenting it, to this day even.

I remember when those appealing eyes turned vicious. That charming smile that turned snarky; Plucking my heart-strings like a harp until its blood bursts and stained us with spite. You were provoking.

But I also remember the person I was around our best times. When we would make each other laugh until we are clutching each other’s legs. When I would cry for your emotional embrace to pursue me through my darkest moments. The support you guided me with until it made me picky with public trust. 

I didn’t mean to kill her, as guilty as that sounds. She was my darkest childhood- A past that’s been resurfacing as haunting memories I could not fully remember. She did though- She remembered like it was yesterday. You can say my attempt to fix it worked however. I was wallowed in happiness when I awoke to her golden locks and dainty fingers sprawled amongst my chest.

If my teenage dream taught me one thing It wasn’t to be free I hid my shadow and took the beating Fueled with fire and no fuel to disagree.

My only giveaway was the pink blushed on my cheeks So I hid within the hearts of my escapes And sheltered by the creeks.

Time seeped through my maturing skin Empty, detached from what has been It revived me to live once again But what was life if I don’t remember it then?

What is this figure I see? They have those eyes with depths of galaxy My heart orbits when they look at me But they see someone I’m not meant to be.

It was my biggest crime, I hurt that pretty soul with no trace behind She became nothing but broken limbs But I found no mercy in the state she’s in.

Her chest still beat with a heart of gold And somehow it left behind my control I saw the tears stained from her eyes But she never had the strength to say goodbye

My sadness never lurked until the night I told her: “Baby, don’t go, you can make this right” This hurts me more than it hurts you Don’t leave me stranded to pay my dues.

How would you feel about yourself if someone told you the things you said to yourself? If you hurt the person you love when hurting yourself?

There are thousands of visions people create of you based on your self-provision of individuality. The way people see you is certainly not the way you view yourself. Those little features you love on someone else, they probably feel self-conscious about. But that does not mean they are bad or unattractive.

When you take a picture of the moon, doesn’t it look like a tiny, pixelated speck, compared to your own two eyes that see its little characteristics, finding it fascinating how it illuminates the sky and provides healing beauties? There are two perceptions, and the one that makes it look bad invalidates its own unique features, when really there is an outside perception you can look at to enhance what you wanted to capture. You are the moon. Your beauties are not truly reflected onto the camera, now look in the mirror and compliment yourself.

The walking proof of unacknowledged pain. The kind of pain that lives in the whites of our eyes- a representation of the internal agony we experience. But it is only helpful to the relating, not the related. For some reason, we find comfort in other’s pains, instead of seeking to demolish what self-destructs. He was simply an observer of his inner-monologues, doing its dirty work and sacrificing life to create... life. But it comes to sight that even with a loving wife, six kids, a successful career and fortune, it is hard to create happiness out of something, because internally we have nothing.

When you see the world in its unfiltered form

So earthly, the diversity

Except for the selection of power; empowerment is now over worn.

Gazing at us, in our nudes

Advocation has been lost, and imprisonment is long overdue.

Enforcement; we are dancing in the clouds, some lifeless on the ground.

Watching the rain fall below, pondering on what could have blossomed if the rain did not drown their crown.

When you see the world in its naturalistic form, it used to be Earthly,

Do you hear that? Nothing

Only the swishing of the salty ocean over the tiny sounds of nature creaking within the atmosphere, simultaneously completing the perfect vision of heavenly isolation. Not a civilization to excuse, not a society to be diffused.

Do you see that?

Something, because it is an overwhelming of nothing. The longing presence of the shelter that completes the experiencing, desperate for a set of limbs to take under its wing. The occasional passing by of pedestrians, searching to feast on chips and sandwiches. The seagulls gliding through the energies of the grazing wind that strokes your flesh as your feet wander through the depths of the sand, eyes fixating to peer the ocean.

Do you taste that?

The condescending beverages streaming through my body, the cold building up through my stomach. The taste buds resting in my tongue, defining the tasty pizza as the cheese stretches within each bite, complimenting such a greasy meal. Such a quiet location yet my best reservation.

Do you feel this place?

Down the alley I watch the sirens blare from afar, the pool of officers trailing down the cracks of the street as they ignore the true offender. Begging for reform, begging for unity; I question how this world became so superior, so opinionated on the standing of classes. But who am I to act upon anything labeled under peace? I have been kicked down, resented, faced the dull perception of what society has transformed into. No one acknowledges the story living in my eyes for the observer to read. Instead, they take one look at my empty prescriptions, cut my funds for the seeking of support, and call me crazy. Crazy. Oh what a frightening word, creating frightening people. Do anything outside the matrix and they throw you in the asylum and title you. Why are we so divided? Why is this world so teamed up yet so alone? So chaotic and judgemental, yet I am the waste of space. The moment I exploded was the moment I had eyes of stern yet hands of agreement. The real crazy is the silencing of the crazies. The crazies are wisdom, the crazies are revolution. They are change.

Do you find the answers or do the answers come to you?

Am I really my biggest enemy or did my demons just grew?

So many tears, no one to hear... I guess my fear of being mistaken has come true.

From time to time, my voice is heard.

But that voice inside of me never say the proper words.

It’s so frustrating; the begging of my spirit to be noticed is not activating.

Simply because as a quiet one, no one will be concentrating.

But I hate the attention... Why is this so complicating?

It’s almost like the loneliness is captivating,

Like the pain in my eyes aren’t translating,

But once I get some ears, my emotions start rotating.. back to a content composure..

Where I have to start over.

And rehear the thoughts that give me no closure.

So when will this stop? My emotions just feel like some prop.

It just enhances everything else my voice is waiting to drop,