we are going mental. scratching and clawing at one another as my mother’s breath weakens.

Her vocal cords shape, reshape, concoct sounds. oxygen trapped in water bubbles unable to make their way through airways. the heart pumps, fighting to resist the pressures of water logged lungs.

Speaking is exhausting.

Here i am home yearning to speak to my mother. ax oceans, ax pain, ax resentment, to reach to that place called love. To find a motherly love i have always found hard to access.

amid soap opera arguments between fucked up adults, cacophonies of shattering glass and screams the backdrop to our childhood. i can’t hear you mother. often i can’t hear you. and neither could you, me.

here i am home, sinking into myself. world diminished. anxiety rising. there’s fire in my belly. It’s fuel is rage. It is smothering compassion. compassion I know I should feel now, filial piety I know should kick in now. because this is what chinese kids do.

my father’s stubbornness. yearning for a life he hadn’t lived. compensating for time lost in youth. it’s the capitalist dream. he is far from it. at 70 he still wants to make it big. so big that it’s threatening to blow his blood vessels trying to cramp distant dreams into the last 20. or so years he thinks he has. I am not so sure.

success is so elusive

success is so imposed

success is such a figment of our imagination

success is such a mindfuck.

and here I am, a failure in their eyes.

i have failed to work for an investment bank. i have failed to be a doctor. i have failed to be a professor. i have failed to bring in the big bucks

so no matter what passion and creativity drives me. i am in their eyes, a failure and this is a heavy burden to bear. so heavy that i cannot ask questions now. so heavy that when they say they are broke and i could have made a difference if i only valued their dreams more than my life, i have only silence and anger and rage to retreat to.

home home home can be so brutal.