The usual mornings.

It has been one hell of a night. The stench of vomit and alcohol lingers on, street lights keep getting dimmer and dimmer. The night escapes away. I can see the sun now.

I am late.

I am light years away from looking presentable. Smudged eyeliner running down just above a slight bruise on my chin, a hickey, I think from god knows who.

I am on my way home, so early in the morning. I stride pass the busy students who have probably earned the bags under their eyes from the long night caressed under the weight of thousands worth of back-breaking books. I have had days when my muscles have given up from carrying these. I still carry them today.

I am late.

The morning just gets worse with drivers honking on, not giving a damn if they only miss me by the skin of my teeth. Has every man and woman gone color blind? I, for one, still think red does not mean speed up and try not to run someone over.

An old man sleeps by the corner of the street, his bed only but scraps of boxes of plastics. A dog bathes in yesterday’s puddles. My eyes have never grown tired of seeing man and dog, living the same way. But my hands—now that’s a different story. Does it help to give money to the poor if it only contributes to their addiction? No, not just drugs. Not just cigarettes. I think of addiction for helplessness. Youth and strength has been wasted so many times.

I am late.

Finally, my room, at last. My books await me but no, I have no intentions of opening them. Instead, I run straight to the comfort of a toilet, spewing away last night’s memories, flushing away the flashes in my mind- the stranger who kissed me, the longest friend I’ve known who tried to make a move, the shots of liquor I drowned in, the memory of him, her, this fucked up world.

I am late.

No time to contemplate this life. And fuck, that’s just how it is. We run our busy days, we drink away our worries, and we start the day again. We redo mistakes again. We keep falling and falling and falling. There is no such thing as too scarred, too hurt, too wounded. What’s the difference? It’s all so fast, I can’t tell.

But I am late.

I pass by the same people, this time the man bathes in the puddle, the dog is sound asleep in the unusual bed. This time a policeman stands in the middle of the pedestrian, I hurry. Life can only hold opportunities for such little time. I run.

The blue-chaired classroom is as it should be. Familiar faces, some friends from last night, another chance. The professor comes in, she smiles, he writes on the chalkboard, she greets us good morning, he yells at a random student, she gives a surprise quiz.. No one is ready. But we push through. We bounce back. We forget.

We move forward, yes?

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One comment

  1. Reblogged this on When will the universe stop staring? and commented:

    I remember writing this from random stories from random friends. And I remember their smiles, I remember the criticisms, I remember the anxiety and pain behind it all. The question was, what did I see in them…No, I didn’t see ‘sluts’ and ‘drunkards’. I saw broken. And I saw warriors.

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