In the Philippines during the war my grandma escaped from the Japanese. She saw her people getting beheaded in churches and in the streets. Her home was set on fire. Blood of the people she knew was shed everywhere. Neighborhoods were being destroyed. To escape she hid in the forest where guerillas found her. The guerillas helped her escape the Japanese. They crossed a bridge that was high above the ground. My grandma was terrified to cross, but it was the only way she could survive. On the other side she was guaranteed safety from the Japanese. She crossed the bridge with the guerillas and hid until the war was over.
Lost in Los Angeles
Trapped. Lost in space. Lost in time. Los Angeles. The addiction. I wake up and it’s the first thing on my mind. I do it to fill the void because I don’t want to fill anything else with it. I’m afraid of what might happen. I’m afraid of the person I might become. What if I lose myself in it? What if I lose my friends? What if I lose my family? What if I lose my values? I’ve changed in these past few years and I know it. The things I don’t enjoy doing now are the things that I used to enjoy. The people I used to call my friends are the people who I feel the most distant from. I wake up. Feed the addiction. Suppress what I don’t want to confront. Put on a façade. I can feel myself collapsing further and further into myself. I’m drawing deeper into myself. I’m a soul lost in space. Lost in time. Lost in the city. The place I call home. To some it’s called Los Angeles, to me it’s Lost Angeles.
(Photo by Justin Goering.)