I forgot that other people, aside from my mum, may read this blog. One such reader asked why I hadn't updated in a while. The truth is, I've been too busy and in my spare time, I do a lot of thinking...not so much writing. Recently, the business has settled a bit, tho the hiatus shall be brief, and the wallowing in my sorrows has started to come back. And, obvi, whenever that happens, I take to the pen, or the keyboard...So here is something cheery. NOT. Here is some free-form about how situations are always so much bigger and more complex than they seem. About how people we have relationships with often stand in as symbols for something of greater meaning, like our psychological make-up or something in our past, or our "character flaw". If only everyone understood that, and stopped thinking I was a middle school girl who loved talking about boys. It's not that, you dim-witted ninnies. It is so much more.
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I miss something that wasn't there. Someone who wasn't there. He plagues me - Loneliness...and he who shall not be named. Men who have too much power over me, who control me, who lure me with their fingers into a trance. Men who I long to possess and whom I obsess over. Men who were never there and are not there still. Who show their face than remove it. Who taunt me and tease me and then say it was nothing. But to me it was. How silly of me. To think of men when others think of politics or school or interior decorating. I think of men. That is my weakness. I think of how they are not there and how I want them to be. How I want to fix it, change it, scrape it up, ooze it out, melt, cry, be held. Why doesn't anyone love me? "Because you don't love yourself". No. I don't love myself because no one loves me. What is life without love? What is life without being needed, without being wanted? What is life if you just exist for yourself? It is empty. It hurts. It is not enough.
Scrape the remnants of the bowl and lick your fingers. It'll satisfy your taste buds for a minute. And then when it settles, you'll crave more. But the bowl is empty, the ingredients gone. No, this is not souffle, you fool. This is my heart. This is my fucking guts, we are talking about. My bottomless-pit of a stomach that aches and yearns to be full and filled and forever satisfied. Never enough. It's a wonder I am not obese.
Stuffing my face with fruitless attempts at love. At stolen, contrived, pulled, contracted moments of faux emotion to feel a glimpse of reciprocity that isn't even real. So that when I watch two people in front of me, holding hands, touching her knee, rubbing his back - it doesn't hurt as much because...I had that...once.
I can't be alone. It is not boredom. It's the inability to distract. The sounds and thoughts and perspective drown out the world. I can't see or hear reality, just my beating heart and the wind in my ears, whistling, and the obsessive thoughts and the wandering thoughts and the thoughts and the thoughts and the thoughts. STOP.
I can't.
Unless you're here. Whoever you are.
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