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Hungering

Hungering

Call me once you’ve had your supper. Answer my call after you’ve eaten.
I can cradle you in my hand while you cradle my worries.

I don’t want to exercise on my days off for the principle,
or for not wanting to associate myself with those that do.
Wandering in idle reflection, resenting meanderings, I whistle or dance along on my walks.
I don’t love running, I don’t love biking, I don’t love anything but my survival these days.

Sitting with the commuters on the bus in quiet communion, I recognize one or two along the daily routes now. The bleak and deserted landscapes I imagined are not true, no one disappeared into a pristine nothingness.
It’s true what they say about the violent shuttling. We’re pulled in different directions, expendable and inventoried at the same time,
bestowed with singular tasks.
I’m writing notes for other people’s loved ones;
“it’s going to be all worth it,” “it’s true what they say don’t blink,”
I’m like an invisible messenger that manifests their longings into physical throwaways.
But I have nothing to do with those people. I’m losing my loved ones to negligence and estrangement.

My day has been poured out and with it have fallen no words of love.
Decadence has never felt more decadent, and as much as my bitterness pushes me to abject, I do miss my own personal brand of it. I’m yearning for a night out looking cute in a see-through shirt.
That imprint on the grass I placidly walked by feels so mischievous.
I’ve been thinking about how I’ve been watching porn more frequently, but I’m not worried about it yet. I’m parlaying this isolation into some substitutes that are tried and true, some easy promises. In some way, the morbid excitement of the present is a bit of an indulgence.

My dining table has been reduced to nothing else but a piece of composite wood where I can rest my hands to paint my nails. I’m dining on myself instead.
“Have a seat at the table, don’t eat on your bed or on the couch,” she tells me.
But there are less self-imposed restrictions on how much I can consume of myself now.

The only thing left to do is to unravel from within, and talk on the phone. “Did your birthday feel like a birthday?”
It felt like the perennials and spring blooming in full are mocking us.
There is an ennui that was probably always there but I’m notorious for having a bad memory.

Surprisingly, the sun manages to come through my window. The longer I spend in this basement the more it shapeshifts into a hotel.
Cold with an unhealthy glow, and the constant hum of an old refrigerator.
I wasn’t born here, nor was I born in the house my family wants me to go back to, the one where we’ve locked ourselves in before.
At least here I have a telescope to spy on the outside world, even though I don’t have a balcony, and I’m not good at prophesying because I realize too late that I am simply airing dirty laundry.

Words by Angie Rico

This work was originally published in Found You Magazine’s ‘The Isolation Issue’ at foundyou.ca

Photography by Rydel Cerezo


Angie Rico was born in Mexico and currently lives and works in Vancouver, Canada. Her writing and filmmaking practice attempt to distill a liminal reality, exercising playful documentation through techniques such as bilingualism, humor, and DIY aesthetics. She holds a BFA from Emily Carr University.

Rydel Cerezo is a Filipinx-born visual artist working in Vancouver, Canada. His work investigates the space between sexuality, religion and race. He has exhibited internationally at Aperture Foundation (New York), Photo Vogue Italia Festival (Milan), and was the first-runner up for the Lind Prize facilitated by the Polygon Gallery (Vancouver). Cerezo holds a BFA from Emily Carr University.


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