I can
recall fond memories of days when C and I were going steady without much
feeling now. Like there is a force field numbing my emotions. I’m not sure if I
prefer numbness or pain. The obvious answer for most would be numbness, but
pain can be pleasant when it’s reminding us of or mortality. I am alive, and
pain is just a reminder of that. If I deny pain then aren’t I also denying the
perks of my very existence?
I’m not
trying to go all philosophical on you, but I can’t help that my mind is
churning with curiosity. Another thought that is occupying my mind is work.
Tomorrow I work the morning shift with a co-worker I have yet to meet. My
foolish hope is that he is attractive and finds me mutually appealing. Maybe
then he’ll ask me to grab a bite with him after work and we’ll hit it off over
a shared appetizer and lighthearted stories about years past.
…But
the cynical part of me can’t let me enjoy this fantasy because this part of me
is quick to remind me that my fantasies are no more than overly hopefulness. I’ve
learned the consequences that come with being overly hopeful and I don’t wish
to re-experience these consequences sooner than necessary.
I spent
the last several hours over at J’s house. We caught up on our favorite TV
series, smoked some hookah and talked about our dreams. I enjoyed myself, and
for a brief time I forgot how lonely I am. But even in the presence of another
I can’t seem to completely shake the feeling of isolation.
I think
I like writing because it’s another distraction from those feelings I try so hard
to outrun. For a short while I have a purpose and I can feel as though someone
is listening to me. Someone can hear me. But of course I’m just talking to
myself really. That’s all this is. Me trying to comfort myself. And the thought
of that saddens me more than I could have anticipated.
My life
is an indie drama that no one’s ever watched. It collects dust on the bottom of
the shelf along with the other VHS tapes that are no longer of use to the video
store… by this point I’m sure you’re beginning to grasp what kind of mood I’m
in. Introspective. Deeper in thought than I’d care to be.
As I
now will myself not to cry I have the urge to walk down the hall, through the
kitchen to my dad’s room and wake him up just so I can have him hold me for a
few moments. So I can remember what it’s like to be comforted by someone other
than myself. Someone that hardly has the choice to love me. Would he hold me?
Let me cry briefly perhaps? Or would he turn me away before I plead my case? This
could seem like a cruel response, but I too have been cruel so maybe it would be
my karma.
I know
it’s hard for him to see me in a fritz. It makes him feel uncomfortable.
Something he can’t fix. I just want him to be my dad for two minutes. Then I
could shuffle back to my bedroom, slip into bed and drift in and out of sleep. I
don’t know when my dad and I became so afraid of each other. Our relationship
is now that of two roommates that don’t really care for the others company. It’s
as if I woke up one day and realized I was homeless, yet ironically living in
the home of my father. The separation we’ve built up between each other serves
as an emotional wall so we can’t hurt each other. Those are two things we’ve
both become experts on – hurting each other and building walls.
It’s
strange the way all these feelings well up inside me all of the sudden. I was
able to keep them at bay all day, keeping busy at work. In fact I had a great
day – even making a decent amount in tips. I keep torturing myself. This self-mutilation
only seems to worsen.
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