Like Words || Ramshackle

Ink on Vellum

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It's midnight. I can't sleep again.

Skipp is hugging Vinnie from the back-the tent is filled with snores. As I got up, I pulled out my worn-out journal. I had it since I was in Ireland, but I ripped up all the pages I wrote while I was in that country. It just reminded me of my past. Although I was supposed to forget it.

I started writing this October.

...

10/03/1998

I am writing. I wouldn't have if it wasn't for that flyer on the glass paned window.
For the first time within the past years, I am writing. I used to gather my nuanced visions and turn them into poetry.
I have forgotten my skills and determination, yet I am willing to restore it. I can't believe there's a pen I'm holding, words escaping, and all those flashbacks playing. My journey would still be on the run if it wasn't for my sister.

I thought, maybe a little of rewinding can enhance my confidence in writing.

Back in Ireland, it was something. I lived there for thirteen years. I was born there.

Often, I feel ashamed of myself for not learning my own culture. I speak Irish, but with no feelings.

Back then, a permanent house was nothing. We moved every year. Every "pretty" mansion can draw you in allure, but it's not that pretty when you don't have a pretty personality to go with it. I hated how my father always made us move. I hated every single house.
When we finally settled in a huge mansion longer, I was relieved.

Back then, my parents had skyrocketing expectations. That just makes everyone depend on you, making you panic upon thinking you wouldn't satisfy them. So I swore I wouldn't fail. It took out fading colour from my childhood if it were a renaissance painting. They fade it instead of polishing.
To them, I was treated less than a son.
Although I tried my best in everything, even if I thought I did perfectly fine, It was nothing to them. Knowing this, that's the reason why I don't show them my interests. My hobbies, my expertise that made me a giddy kid.

Back then, I was a coward.
Never snapped back, never fought for my freedom. Just a dog under its shelter feeding on shallow bones. And if there aren't any left, I bet they're the type to tell me to feed on my own bones.

Ever since Avrille pulled that experimental fantasy on me, I grew weak.
She saw me as a rat; I think she sees me as a rat. I saw her as a girl who had no idea what she's doing.
A crack of her Erlenmeyer flask, a static buzz of the wires, a series of crumpled paperwork, a collection of illegal drugs, and a thirteen year old boy stuck in her sister's lab. It was painful. I loved her.

When she found out about my work, she snatched it from my desk and ripped it apart. I can still hear the sound of torn paper. She told me it was pointless, then she stared at my pencil's graphite lead all flat and sunken.

After a while, I had enough. I ran away from our mansion in the absurdly privileged side of Ramshackle with barely anything. When I was packing, I heard a knock. So I left, through the window, with one backpack on a rainy day.

I was damped and ruined. When I got to the slums, two creepy shitheads stole my bag.

Then my tears greeted the rainwater, basking in it. Until Vinnie and Skipp saw me.