Caffeine. Bad ideas. Feeling…okay? Building mysteries. Old friends that I haven’t heard from in ages. Contemplating an analog version of Timehop, which I’ll brand and market as Nostalgia. Watching the Daily Show, still teetering on the brink of liking Trevor Noah in the role. There’s a certain nuance there I’m both seeing and searching for. Larkburger. A bit of relief followed by more dread, some of which I need, most of which I don’t. I gotta get that goddamned desk I bought stained and brought up here and put together. I did wake up. I did get my phone. I did get my errand done. That’s something. Even if when I turned up, my mother met me at the door with it, as apparently I had set an early alarm and she’d worked out (bravo, mother) how to turn it off, and said, Oh, you haven’t put on any makeup.
Sigh. Deep, consequential sigh.
I still miss you. I don’t over-romanticize it, really. I don’t dwell on it. Most days I don’t think about it at all. I know it’s a broken record. I know I need to move forward. I see that I am choosing not to. I see that I am paving my life that way. I get that I am plastered over with fears that I will have to personally machete and break through and scream at and threaten and dissolve and liquify to find myself any sort of peace. But yet, I miss you writing me and I miss feeling special under your gaze both visual and verbal and I miss, not what might have been, but the tension that was. The build-up building up. I miss the art of the game we were both exquisitely good at even if nobody should have considered it a game. Even if whatever game it was, I lost be it by shut-out or forfeit. I was out there, daring greatly. Now, I don’t want to dare at all. I am not motivated to dare. I am gross and awful. No. Yes. Maybe? I would really enjoy that sort of live performance. I would really enjoy some repartee. It would make me feel smart and pretty and engaged. If I had to pick a word to describe my headspace right now (and I don’t, I have hundreds to play with) it would be disengaged. I guess I just feel like it’s hopeless.
It isn’t. Maybe only in a short-term sort of way. It’s hopeful, actually. But the feelings. Like with you, there are easy words there because there are easy feelings there. I don’t know what to say about another school shooting. I don’t know what to say about the great fears that are currently freezing me in place. I don’t know how to fight harder right now, except to just fight harder. To fight at all, really.
That terrible malaise is the thing I can’t get comfortable with. I can’t let myself do this yet again.
And then, yet again, I do,.