Happy New Year xx
For too long I’ve dreaded aloneness, afraid of feeling forgotten or overlooked. Unwanted. Unloved. I binged and purged on the attention of others and resented them when it wasn’t enough and resented them more when it was too much.
I’d forgotten what it was like to be apart and on my own. To choose company instead of demanding it and desperately needing it to fill the void I felt in my bones. So frightened of being forgotten that I forgot myself. Life is quiet right now and I feel safe.
After all the tears, rehearsed conversations and nights awake worrying, the end of the whole affair was quiet, considered and calm. She held out for one extra night together, just in case things might be different this one time but she realised that he was who he was and not what she needed anymore, if ever. He didn’t need her expectations. She didn’t need his indifference. Her love was misplaced and misconstrued. His love? She had no idea.
And as much as I chastise myself for holding on too long, and for being so afraid to let go, I I realise that it’s only because you mattered so much to me, even though I no longer know why.
And although love fades, and I wonder if it ever goes away, I feel like an asshole for moving on, and I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone but sometimes I fall short and sometimes I have no idea how to stop hurting myself without hurting someone else.
It’s lonely being
And it’s lonely
I dread this dance
As I’ll be lonely when
I miss reading books. I miss reading at bedtime and on rainy, lazy weekend days. I miss the awe I feel for an eloquent writer. I miss underlining words that I don’t understand and sentences that stand out for their sheer brilliance, be they witty, pithy or both. I miss finding mistakes in texts. I miss opening lines and reading the last line first. I miss falling in love with books and writers and not wanting a book to end.
Mostly, though, I miss the part of myself that loves how much I love words and prose and syntax. That part of me that spends hours in second hand book shops and talks excitedly to others about her favourite authors. Like a well loved book that’s borrowed but not returned, I’ve forgotten where, and to whom, it went.
I drove towards the sunrise on my way to work. I was early, unusually, and well rested, even more unusual for a Sunday morning. The sky was awash with inky blues and indigo curved around a burst of egg yolk yellow. I felt it unfamiliar and endless and new.
It was unsettling but only because my mind and my heart were at peace this morning. I felt the sky pull me forwards and suddenly I wanted to keep moving; to drive across highways with a lover, singing songs out of tune and eating glazed doughnuts in waxy paper in my old pinkish red Toyota.
Everyday the sun rises and rests yet I could easily go on forever blinded by simply knowing it’s there.