The end of the week
Is already here.
I’ve been waiting
Ahead of time.
The days no longer try
There is now
The scales from my eyes
Have been removed.
This is all one
But one day
I will end.
I pound against the doors of time
And beg them to release me.
Why did they lock me in here
When did they lock me in here
When will I be let go
Into the darkness
From whence I came –
Free from memories
I float on my emptiness
And wait to be swallowed up
By this great vacancy
Which I’ve been allowed to occupy.
I wrestle with my ambitions
And my knowledge
And I fight and give up
Side by side.
“What’s the use?”
I ask myself.
“There will be nothing
When this is over
The same way there was nothing before.”
I release my breath
And sink into myself.
“Endure,” I say
“It will all be over soon.”
It’s death again, and my life, and what I’m to do with it. My long distance relationship and when and how I’ll find out what love is. How long I’ll live. How long my father will live. How things were before I was here. How they will change after. Why I was even born in the first place. Why I am being made to deal with this. Why there isn’t forever. Whether or not there really is anything afterwards.
It’s 3:47 am and I’m awake thinking about these things, the same way I do any other time I’m awake.
Fulfillment, success, happiness. Will I be one of the lucky ones who get to have these things? Or will I be one of the sad ones who never figure anything out, spending their whole lives searching for answers only to not find anything at all?
How many more years until I come to any sort of conclusion?
“How was your night?”
“Mm. It was alright. Better than staying home with nothing to do wondering what to do with my time.”
I forgot what he said here. Maybe he was alluding to something I had implied earlier.
I don’t remember exactly what my response was either, but it was a ramble and went something to the effect of
“I love you. I really do, I think I love you, but sometimes I’m just not in the mood. Like after this trip, I came back and I felt really positive about the relationship, but… Like the book I just finished reading is about ageing – the guy is telling the story over generations and you just see time going and you grow old and your body sags and I don’t even have the person I love with me so I can spend as much time with him as possible and cherish every moment I can. I just feel like in life there are always choices to make. There’s A and B and you have to choose one. Or maybe you say none of the above and you stay where you are, but either way time is going. It’s always going and you can’t get it back. So even if you choose A, you can’t come back and say let’s see how B is if A doesn’t work out. Or if you stay stuck where you are, time is still going no matter what you do. Like I’m 23 and other people my age are making steps. I don’t see what I’m doing with my life. I graduated with a degree, was happy when I graduated, but now what am I doing with it? I’m $40,000 in debt for a degree that I’m not using. Should I go to grad school? But I’m not sure I want to spend another $30,000+ or get that much in loans and then have it turn out to be something I don’t want. I just feel like my life is wasting and I don’t even have the person I love with me to hug and maybe just not think about it.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to go to sleep cuz I have work in the morning.”
I wake up and see that the call has been disconnected. There is a message from him. I don’t read it. I had asked him if I was going to wake up to messages on my phone. I strongly dislike that; I don’t see the point when he could just speak to me. What is the point of being on the phone.
I get out of bed, strip and go to the bathroom. I brush my teeth in a rush while still trying to do a good job. After I shower and get back to my room, I try to remember what I had decided to wear. I change my mind, not wanting to wear heals two days in a row.
Maybe while eating my bowl of cereal, maybe afterwards, I read his message. I’m not in the mood, but I do it anyway.
It says something like if you wonder what I saw in you when we were friends and chose to be in a relationship with you even though you’re so far away, it’s “self-respect”. It caused me to trust you. …I know I have a woman of quality [three heart eyes and a heart kissing face].
My eyes run over the message quickly, trying to get the gist of it. I respond with “OK” and “gm” for good morning with a kissing face, but not the one with the heart and not the one with the blushing cheeks.
i told him i missed his neck,
he thought i said lips.
i can never have enough of those,
but i discovered his neck this january.
it was, so smooth
and so very inviting.
i could rub my nose against it
and inhale its scent
(i can’t give him eskimo kisses;
his nose lies close to his face.)
i’m surprised at how much time i spent there,
curled up against him
with my face as close to his neck
as i could comfortably get it.
i sniffed him a lot,
i felt my eyes wanting to look at him
to see if he was looking at me strangely.
i was behaving like a dog –
for some reason
my nose was always on him.
i loved all his colognes;
they were magnificent on him,
but i missed his naked smell
of iron, metal, steal –
whatever it was.
that smell was so strong
it made me think it was inside him,
that he was made of metal
and therefore just as strong.
i couldn’t smell him before i left.
i couldn’t smell anything.
stronger than my sense of smell
was the force of my tears
that suddenly rose up
in protest and threatened
to flood montego bay.
i told him i was leaving.
i was not happy with myself.
that was not the way i had wanted to say goodbye.
i went through security
and didn’t look back.
safe in bed and a sea apart,
two weeks later,
i told him i missed his neck.
Here’s to being alive and wondering what part you are supposed to play in the grand scheme of things – if you even do have a part to play, if you will make any impact at all.
Here’s to wondering why you never had a say in this whole being alive thing – why you never got to choose and how it was all just done to you, without your knowledge and without your consent.
Here’s to being scared of what will come afterwards, wishing you had some idea because it’s the not knowing that makes you afraid – not knowing when, not knowing how, not knowing anything at all, except that it is inevitable.
I have nothing to say and too much to say. A lot going on, but not enough. I’ve been hurt so much, though barely at all and I complain way more than I need to. I don’t know where this is going and I don’t know where I want it to go, but I want it to go somewhere, to go somewhere farther than here. I want it to be something more than just this. Am I talking about this post, or about my life?
I’m drinking a large latte with almond milk and a hazelnut swirl that I bought from Dunkin’ Donuts a little over thirty minutes ago. I felt like nursing a cup of coffee so I went out and got one, and then found it to be too sweet. I wished that I had bought a smaller size, or that I had gotten a caramel swirl instead of hazelnut, but I’ve been drinking the latte anyway.
In forty minutes I’ll be leaving work and I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do yet. I want to get two rolls of quarters so that I can do my laundry. I want to buy a dish drainer for the kitchen because as of today, there is none. I also want to buy two curtain rods because I finally bought curtains and I want to hang them up in my room. Oh, and I want something for my walls, or for a wall. I’ve never wanted anything on my walls before. Not that I was thinking of getting that today, but I do want to get that.
Should I be worrying about money right now? I just came back from visiting my cousins in Florida and that trip cost a couple of dollars. I’m thinking – I’m going to Jamaica next month and that won’t be cheap either, though it will be nowhere near what Florida cost me. (I just spent about three minutes making sure I used the correct past tense of the word cost.)
The temperature of my latte is slowly going down. It’s not doing much to keep me awake. I’m writing though, and that’s always a good thing – unless someone reads your journal without your permission. In that case, I suppose writing is still a good thing. It is simply the act of invasion that is the opposite.
In thirty minutes I’m done with work. I need to make a decision by then. I suppose I don’t have to do anything at all today, but I probably will. When things find a spot in my head, they aren’t usually displaced very easily. My only concern is carrying the things I’ll buy. I’m not particularly fond of baggage.