I left our house once. Maybe twice. I was a stowaway in this shipping line called Living. I did it because I had jobs that can feed me and let me roam through the city without ever thinking of how I spend my funds. It’s plenty for the young bachelor whose hopes and dreams never cease to an end.
Or, I left because simple things at home caused arguments like they had to be resolved by the president. Numerous debates all the time flowed like an endless fountain of molten rocks that served as a cauter to our tender hearts. Tender hearts? Or should I say unfazed emotion muscles? I also think that maybe my mom, step-dad, my brother and I have lost respect to each other.A long time ago.
My mom and step dad would argue about how the world should end and end up cursing each other with spicy words involving the names of our neighbors that knew nothing about what was going on inside the four corners of our house.
I remember I went out of the house right after a series of yelling about how an omelet should be done. One of my uncles, drunk, immediately approached me as if he waited on one of the alleys that surrounds our house for someone to walk out of it. He told me the unwaivering shouts from the throats in our house reached theirs. His house was about three hundred feet away. I was bothered, felt shy, as if it’s the first time something that scandalous happened in the community. Then I thought we’re not the only crappy family in this sinful drug-addicts’ lair. So, as quickly as I felt the wrongs about it, I instantly eliminated the shame and regained my pride to walk past the several judging eyes towards where my car was parked and left for the gym.