The Lies We Live

tales of suburbia

"i don't wanna fall in love off a subtweet."

Do you know what it feels like to wonder? To take on the parts of the universe that get looked over all too often. We spend so much time planning out life. And I will say a cliche thing: why not live it?

Every day we are working to a better end game. A job. An education. A love. An event. A night. A journey. An adventure. A vacation. A relationship. A crew. An act. A promise. A lie. A life.

But maybe we don't need all of these things. Maybe we just need our car keys and nothing particular in mind. A bike ride to a place we never planned to go. Have you ever tried to let go of the reigns and see where on earth the cart was meant to go?

Sometimes, when I'm sad, I pretend to grow wings, retractable ones, mind you, but ones that will take you everywhere you were afraid to tell people you wanted to go. I see myself jumping off the ledge of this really tall building, not suicidal or anything, just to feel what it is like to fall. Then at the very last moment, I'll spread my arms and soar through this big city where no one can see me, but I can see them.

Stop the car at the edge of the world, it's time to climb out. We've spent too long going somewhere and getting nowhere. And maybe I'll think, looking at those lights from such a great distance, that I can forgive all these people of what they've done to me. Because I think, in such a lonely place, there isn't much space to hate.

If my bike hit the dust with a gentle thud, I would think this place wasn't real. But it is, because it clatters to the ground with an ear shattering crash. This place looks like humanity hasn't touched it yet. Then maybe I will ponder whether I am worthy of being such a first. I try to think critically. Despite good intentions, I carry a heavy heart. I get jealous. I get mad. Sometimes I want to tear this world in half because of what they've done to me. And what I've done to it. I'll make the excuse that I'm human, and then I'll realize that this place is better off without us. I sit there for a bit, and when I leave, I make sure not to leave a trace.

If only the places I wrote about existed in real life. Maybe I would learn to smile when the sun shines down on my face instead of cringing away. And you can't blame me. I'm young, and I haven't seen the world yet. I come from a place where on a freezing day, it will continue to be bright, reminding me that even in such torture, someone out there is still allowed to laugh. Surrounded in the suburb life where we never show what we feel inside, sometimes we don't even say it. But when we do, it is laced with hatred that we all hold dear. Because we don't scream when we're mad, and we smile if we want to cry because sometimes nothing matters more than what these other idiots think about us. Nothing is worse than being shunned out of this mediocre utopia.

Every tree here lives because someone let it. The same goes for the fruits and the flowers, but sometimes I wish wild roses would start growing out of people's bath tubs, and kitchen sinks. That the trees would just uproot themselves and walk away from this isolated place where they must live near such vile things. If I could watch bean stalks sprout out of everyone's mouths, I would think that at least it's better than all the terrible things they were about to say.

Then maybe this place would be beautiful again. Like how it used to be when it didn't know of the bitter flavor of humanity, and the gore of an aftertaste we've left in our wake.

In my high school, I look around and feel like screaming at these people. Don't you ever want to be anything more than you were supposed to be? There is a difference between living and existing. These people search for a good time instead of a greater purpose, would rather feel drunk than infinite, have things instead of achievements, and worse more, they wither instead of grow. And this terrifies me to the point that I begin to shut down.

I want to be more than this place, this horrid place where I taught myself how to write if only to escape the horrors of being mundane. Until I get to see the beautiful places, I will write about them. Imagine them, create them. They will be my vacation when the world starts to spin too fast, or slow, because sometimes, it does that to me.

I will be the sole survivor of a rigorous cycle. I will be a flower, full bloom. I will learn to be beautiful, like all the places I dream of but can't see.