Memory Lane and Pills and American Plastic
...he wanted me to walk behind him, become a peasant, just like him. He didn’t want me to break the family tradition. But what if I wanted them to keep me running, to keep me running towards something, because it meant that I could run away from the bad memories, like him. The T.V. noises are interrupting my gaze, aimed at the sleeping guy, telling me that if I’m anxious or unable to sit still, the problem is solved because, I’m just depressed. No, I’m not depressed, because I’ve been sitting still, like an angry doll all day, thinking of stupidity, and how I’ve mastered it. I wish depression was my excuse, and pills would make decisions for me, those smart decisions I’m not used to making. I would wake up in the morning, tell my pill, “You have no idea what I have to deal with today. But I do and this is my list.” These aren’t role models, these little plastic bodies. This isn’t what I came here for. I didn’t become illegal, cross that border, just so you cou...