Addressing the Elephant In the Room

Everyone around me is wearing a plastic smile plastered on their face with perfect force, asking people how it’s going when we’re all going “Oh it’s just a test, just a jest, not the real thing.”

It’s hard when everyone around you is focused more on reality than letting people see the real-ness welling up inside: The night they spent crying, their families divided.

Everyone’s putting on a show, a front row seat to look at their perfect lives when really it’s just a patched-up lie. Just looking through a stained glass window at the counterfeit world and lifestyle that we know. Everything’s fast and snappy and no one’s an inconvenience, and no one has to look at it

Everything’s fast and snappy and no one’s an inconvenience, and no one has to look at it, no one has to talk about it because everyone’s mouths are glued shut in a fake, plastered on, perfect smile.

And no one sings.

And no one thinks about anything that isn’t theirs, nothing about the perpetual whirlwind of feeling and trust that no one pays attention to. And I’m sick of pretending like it’s not there. Like the elephant in the room is a perfectly normal substitute for life, like they’ve given it a name and made it a pet and now it just stands there. But I think it’s gonna die soon if no one addresses it, so I will.

Everyone has to be real. No more fake, please. I’m sick of hearing it, sick of listening to it, sick of staring at it and stuffing it down my throat–literally.

It’s sad when you realize that everyone knows how to accept reality but no one knows how to be real.


The Epitome of Relaxation

Living in a state where you are not constantly trying mentally.

Not trying to fit, not trying to act, not trying to smile.

Just breathing and relaxing and walking normally.

Not trying. Not conscious every second of the day.

That kind of relaxation.

The kind where you can curl up in a ball in your closet and drink tea and close your eyes.

That kind.

And when it washes over you, you feel like you could stay that way for hours. But then knowing you can’t. And being okay with that.

You only need a few hours.

You only have a few hours, anyway.

Away from all the trying, away from all the confusion and worry and fear.

And just alone in your closet.

Moments like these are moments worth living for.


I miss someone being there.

To hold my hand, to walk with me. I miss someone being there for me to talk with. For me to check in on. Someone being there to check in on me. I miss being surrounded by people. Good quality humans. People that I love. I miss the joy that all of these souls would give me. I miss all of the intricacies of the human life and mind coursing through my brain and into my veins until I forgot who I was.

I miss the smell of France.

I miss the temperature of the big white hall of the church.

I miss the times when we resorted to using humans to build ladders, tables, and to spell words.

I miss everyone’s voice. The different underlying textures; the rasps, the sweet high-pitched swallowing sound of the vocal chords. I miss my little brother and my older brother that I didn’t know I had until a month ago. I miss both of them. I miss the day when I discovered that I possessed more freedom than I thought I did. That day when I figured I could be myself; be my own person and no one could stop me. No one would know the difference.

Everything was new and felt like an excuse to feel the wind in my hair and the breath in my lungs.

I felt like I could paint my portrait anyway I wanted to.

I took care to apply all of the right colors in broad brushstrokes until my masterpiece was complete.

And then realizing that the hand holding the paintbrush wasn’t my own.

I miss someone being there and painting along with me.

Living Out of a Suitcase

Imagine leaving. Leaving home. With a suitcase clutched firmly in your hands.

The only cords you have attaching you to everything you feel comfortable with fit into a convenient box you haul around. Your past life has become quite personified into a three-dimensional shape. It’s frightening to hold everything that you’ve ever felt comfortable with in your hands. And yet it’s freeing as well. For then you have the ability to simply let go and let it all trickle through your fingers into the unknown.

Forcing your mental cage into something that you can see and touch makes you realize just how big the world is and how many people are living in it. The freedom that living out of a suitcase brings is hard to describe. It enhances an attitude of indifference towards the daily decisions of life and yet packs a pungent punch of reality in it’s cloth compartments.

Packing a suitcase is sometimes like packing your worries away; knowing that you will unfold all of these troubles later as you fold up your shirts is a way to remain sane in this confusing world.

The ability to zip up the tangible representation of your home and comfortable life and leave it zipped up somewhere where it won’t follow you around is extremely refreshing.

It makes you feel alone in the world, but it allows you to open up your view of what the world actually is.

Living out of a suitcase is practical, forces one to prioritize, and frees one from cluttering thoughts.

It bequeaths one with a feeling of invincibility and an eager excitement for the world ahead.

It forges a path of new experiences, friendships, and thoughts.

Living this way shifts the focus off of oneself and onto others. It changes the view from possessions to experiences. From things to memories. From your own house to new places.

Living out of a suitcase makes you realize that we’re all in the same boat. We’re all actually lost and don’t have complete control over our lives.

We’re all trying.

We’re all breathing.

We’re all living out of a suitcase.

To the Person Who’s Soul Has Died

I know that the world has ended for you.

And I know that you don’t want to talk to anybody, much less get out of your room.

I know that the only thing you want to do right now is fling yourself onto your bed, curl up in a ball, and squeeze yourself as tightly as you can.

You do that. Just do that.

I know what other people are saying, I know what the world says, I know what you’ve said and what you’ve thought.

Just forget all that for now and stop.


Sit and listen.

Cry or sleep or run a marathon if that’s what you want. This moment is for you and only you.

I know what you’re feeling.

Just stay silent.


Or don’t think.

Achieving Greatness

There are so many great people in this world,

So many who have made it.

Like great war generals and presidents,

public heroes celebrated throughout the years.

I wonder, did they want to be great?

Did their hard work and persistence pay off?

Because there are so many people who aren’t remembered,

so many Marys and Davids and Betty Lous

Who were here like all of us are here,

But did not make it.

Did they want to be great?

Did their hard work and persistence just not pay off?

Everyone thinks they’re so special, and that they’ll make it someday.

But the truth is, everyone doesn’t make it.

Everyone isn’t successful.

If everyone made a name for themselves,

If everyone was remembered,

All of our history textbooks would be quite thicker.

So who am I to say that I will be remembered?

Who am I to say whether I’ll make it or not?

Because chances are, I will end up being like all of the untold millions

Who lived, achieved greatness, but not enough to be noticed, and died.

Who can say if I’ll be remembered at all?

Sometimes I think that there are just too many people in the world.