Estrange family. I don’t love them. I don’t consider this place my home. I don’t belong here anyway. I need to get away, but my fears restrain me here. 

Losing the race because I keep tripping myself. Wiping out whenever I have the chance. Shattering all the walls. I’m left black and blue all over. My progress bar is empty. As a result, I’m stuck replaying the same events over and over in my head. I need to pause this game. I need to scratch out the pain. I don’t need a trophy. I’d be content with an easy pass. Yet some part of me wants more. It’s not for me. It’s for you still observing me chase my own tail. I’m just a lame little mummy dummy. Just a few seconds off from being proud of it all. But I’m too tired to go on. I hope you’ll wait around while I take this prolonged pause.

Playing all day, reading all night. These made-up characters are just alright. I’m socially awkward. I feel as though I’m moving backward. Stressing out about nothing. I won’t complain and continue bluffing. Disabled from my own fears of the unknown. If only I could turn to stone. I’m dying inside. It’s terrifying but my mouth is tied. Can anyone see my lies? I’m trying hard not to cry. But my eyes are too dry. It’s been a dull day. And I’m not feeling okay. I need to call out. But I’ve forgotten how to use my voice. 

My overreactions are such a distraction. I’ll never move forward if I’m stuck looking backward. It can’t be this complicated. Completely freeze for a second. Just hold still and breathe. Beneath this mess, I express my stress. I am still a work in progress. Thinking about my thoughts. Criticizing things during the moment instead of watching or learning or experiencing whatever it is then waiting for the end to think about it. Wasting time imagining conversations with people. Narrating either what I am doing at the moment or what I plot to perform step by step. 

Distracted mind. Thinking, remembering, worrying. Mediating to focus more on conversations. Instead, I’m just noticing how often I'm not focused on those conversations. Aging with the rest of the world outside. Frozen in time in the inside. Living in my personal shell. I never bothered anyone. I kept to myself. As a result, I hide behind these sheets. No amount is adequate enough. I must freeze. Observing everything changes in the blink of an eye. In some ways, I have changed as well. Yet in some ways, it seems that I have not at all. What is time’s rush to go by? Either I have too much time and nothing to do. Or too many things and not enough time. Time to write. Time to fritter away. Hungry to put together something complete and failing to do a thing. Time to go. Failed the goal. 

By Cristina Collazo