I’ve got a broken wing that I’ve never allowed to heal. It’s why whispering through a smokescreen is simpler than jotting down feelings into a pedantic Google Document. 

To me, a literal expression of self has never stopped feeling like we’re perpetually pushing on a spot that gets softer and softer with each idle pleasantry. 

Talk is relatively cheap in this medium; the same can be said about words themselves. They’re the world’s most renewable resource. Crafted out of nothing, then subsequently withered into thin air. It’s almost humorous when the alexithymia strikes and the letters won’t conjunct naturally. What’s sardonic is that I’ve never grown restless watching them string themselves together like impassive soldiers neatly columned — like black dominoes on the brink of collapse.

The lack of a “Eureka!” when you finally manage to croak the ideal remark is salient. All those quixotic phrases that suddenly make everything seem meaningful read more like curt crosswords devoid of any reasonable digestibility. Yes, it’s as frivolous as it’s been accused, yet, something about it feels prophetic enough to platform. At last, the scary mask is obscured, my little hum-drum darkling.

If there were a voice inside my head that could speak English, it would tell me to keep going. Dig deeper until I inevitably hit the heartbeat in the brain. Let the colors of my face wash away into a pale green fade.

It’s redundant; there’s always a point where you’ve gone too far. Looking out into a vast sea of nothingness gives no casual catharsis. It only reminds me that I have nothing left to give to those who expected the pit erudition to be bottomless. Nothing that could be considered apt anyway, like an oblique cast shadow. 

No, this isn’t a vignette of the tragic hero or the tortured artist; I’d like to think of this as a wholly unique caricature. A film you’ve only seen once and sanguinely describe using vague “and then” statements. The kind of story that’s already been recontextualized a thousand times, each with a new batch of half-baked cliches. Lest we forget, only in one’s eyes do you see the picture you so briefly examined. It’s hardly a worthwhile use of your Broca’s area. 

At this time, I have no meaning to attach to this pitiful piece of paper. Alas, another meaning made out of nothing. A layman signifier to the estranged symbol. The process I’ve abused oh-so-many times to perpetuate my bona fides, permitted by those who grace the heavens of a tortured mind. 

To those I wish I had thanked sooner, here’s the portion where you can smile. 

Thank you for everything, Hector. Thank you for staying up with me all those nights, Xuan. Thank you for the photos, Alex. Thank you for designing this page, Sonia.

Being remembered is overrated, and so is being pretentious.