The Sigh That Escapes Me

The next entry is a few days later but with my usual grumpiness and quick hand writing that perhaps only I can decipher. I read this with a hit of nostalgia slapping me with a sting hovering my chest. The entry begins with any other mundane day with the weight of my younger self's world. 

"I think all day because that's all I can do. Thinking about that shitty grade that leaves a stain on my report card compared to my other grades," the entry reads. "Every time I think of that damn class, my heartbeat just seems to get faster and my fingers instinctively threading through my hair in frustration. Anticipating my dad hollering at me for this adds another layer of unease. As if he can say that while he doesn't understand a shit of what I do. With a huff, I seek refuge towards library after 5th period, my only oasis. It's a haven where my thoughts are silenced and my burdens lifted, if only for a moment, bringing relief along with its comfort. My hope was grossly crushed when it was closed. My only sanctuary in this school--to relax on that soft sofa and lay myself and blink the life away. Alas, it was not that pretty."

A chuckle escapes me, the memory of my annoyance as vivid as if it were yesterday.

"I walked away with my shoulders hunched, dragging my feet. Before I knew it, I was at the crosswalk, a place I despised for its chaos. The honking of cars, the signs color changing, the damn dog barking just because he can, and the crows' mocking caws or curses under their beaks. Who knows. If only I had a mute button in real life. How pleasant that'd be."

"A dog passes, eagerly tugging at its leash. 'Even that dog is loved more than me,' The thoughts leaves a sour taste in my mouth.' I walk past the stop sign and that automative response replays,'Wait.' As if I have the time for that."

"My walk gets closer to my home when I see a pink shade of flowers bloomed onto a branch that's showered with the love of sun and its warmth. I catch the scent of the flowers that makes me pause my breathing. Its appearance sure is a sham when it rots on the inside. I notice my neighbor, a fellow high schooler, chatting with a friend. I forcibly tune out their conversation as I walk up the stairs. Their talking gets to a halt and my eyes are locked onto them as I walk upstairs. Six years have passed like silent shadows, and yet, our conversations remain as cold as a winter tree--strangers beneath the same roof." 

I scoff at the bitter irony

"I jangle out the custom made key from my polka-dotted canvas bag. It takes a few annoying attempts to open the door and when it finally does, I'm greeted with the heat and the sound of television that my grandma watches."

I surrender to sleep, escaping my thoughts into the comfort of dreams. If only a temporary cure.