inspired by jack kerouac’s belief and technique for modern prose—
the roads from nowhere to nowhere are vast and uninhabited the compulsive need of the computer to correct this is quite irritating but anyway—que estaba diciendo—I feel vastness when close my eyes and understand that distance is important—I’m a hopeless, deeply problematic romantic and that’s a sad thing this day and age but I digress or have no choice but to do so because sometimes things come out when you least expect it—yeah, right—you were there, expecting something to wrong and it didn’t for once which was truly incredible when you think about it except for that time you cried driving from florida to georgia—or was it the other way around—and you cried because you hate to drive when there’s judgement in the front and side seat and pity in the back but drama has a bad habit of messing with you in your modern life—you remember your uncle saying that theres no starbucks in the ghetto and gave you the rights to the poetic phrase—and now its in your head like the road you drove as the sun went down in the long highway road youre driving down and you realized that driving by yourself is pretty awesome in the romantic comedy way without the cliché details and the fuckboy to ruin the scene—just you and a montage that went on and you wouldve fallen asleep had you not been holding the wheel—you didnt obviously because you wouldve been too dead to tell any tales—trato de hablar en español pero siempre me sale mal—that’s why I still have an accent after 10 years and when I go to the states they mistake me for American if they don’t look too long until they notice the blur the detail thats faulty too different to ignore and they see the intruder but I never lingered anywhere long enough to be tagged—I know when I don’t belong and ive been through enough shit to get the feel of being unwanted in a space—but for some reason the relief is the trip home because I need realism—irony not included but thanks for the sentiment—and I was getting too fat off the usa sweet tea and muricaism—ah I still break my fathers heart—
when I planted mini American flags in the soil of my fathers front lawn while he beamed with pride I felt like a traitor to my own despite the fact that I explicitly stay out of family arguments because picking my fights is an important part of me self-defense mechanism—I also understood that loss is a permanent affair and disillusionment is but a pill you shove down your throat and move on—on to what you believe is something less shitty or something along these lines—id write a poetic conclusion but I think that honesty has been the best course of action and honestly im quite tired of the concept of auto-victimization—as fun as it sounds—because im too old to pretend that I have an ending perfect enough for the curtain call—
vastness is the road, and im still traveling
© All rights reserved Angela M. Orozco Torres
Angela M. Orozco Torres. (Bayamón). Estudiante de Escritura Creativa en la Universidad de Puerto Rico con una segunda espacialización en literatura británica. Ama la lectura, los juegos de video, el cine y janguear con sus aminerdos.