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Mar 2018
As I walk back home from a stressful day at school, I can't help but recognize the heavy steps I've taken through the same old, claustrophobia inducing,
routine making street for the past three years.

It's so peaceful and quiet,
unlike my mind,
which erupts in strenduous racket at the sight of sanity,
even if it's a mere glimpse at it.

I want to break the silence and scream,
but as soon as I do, this dead street will come back to life;
cars won't stop passing by,
old ladies will rush to the front door, and try to take a look at what's going on,
dogs will start to bark,
which will scare the cats,
who will make the neighbours yell at them to leave their houses...

I wish to feel this alive.

I want my heart to beat like a drumkit being smashed on by John Bonham
I want my lungs to fill with air, and float away into the cloudy night sky
I want my voice to sing like Freddie Mercury in the morning,
like Whitney Houston at noon,
and like James Hetfiled at night,
all on my own.

I want my hands to hold on to my mother and father in the wake of my departure.
I'm not ready to leave them yet.

I want my head to stay quiet,
my mind to stop working,
my memories to fade out,
and my anxiety to consume all.

People think psychologists know all the answers,
that we can't
or won't
or shouldn't get angry,
sad,
anxious,
joyous,
euphoric,
suicidal,
depressed,
lonely...

We are still humans,
and we have it worse than anyone else.

Every single person has their own demons,
but we can call them by name.
Krusty Aranda
Written by
Krusty Aranda  MΓ©rida
(MΓ©rida)   
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