Tears. Are stuck inside. As i paid my bill to a meal that I couldn’t eat, I thought the floodgates would open upon leaving. For once my face would be kissed with tears. I was wrong. I walked to the ocean. Stared into a darkness that was only interrupted by the saliva of the waves crashing. Fought the torment. The desire to numb. Feel the pain, I plead with myself. I question, what does that mean.
I write as I fight the path of which offers comfort. A support that I can offer myself. Requires no one. It calls my name. yet, I have been so good. So proud. The consequences swirl insignificantly to the strength of the solace, my drug.
I fight. I try to write. I sit here, in torture. With this pain, this keyboard and words that are not flowing. Words that are not healing. The sadness stuck behind these veils that are eyes. The pain, this void is inexplicable.
This morning my tear ducts were also activated, yet also not fully employed. But the catalyst was happiness. A fragment of a dream. A passion felt. A plan. It still breathes, but my heart is suffocated, constrained and I wonder how it continues to beat. I hurt.
I am on the brink of something that awakens me, the me that has long been asleep. So close to finding a feeling that I forgot how to feel. Passion. Yet within the same day, now I sit, hollow. Lonely. I think of the players in my life, the cast of which I write. I think of the texts that fill my phone. And the texts that escape it. I breathe, move and live with a void. The highs, the dreams, the excitements I have felt only emphasize that I am not whole. That there is no companion, family or friend with whom to share. That when i need, suddenly no one is there.
. . . And the pain that this is me. And it will be, always.
I am having an insatiable craving for a companion. I am in New York with many friends to see and much work to do and I am sitting here, heavy, unfocused and longing for a companion. The journalist could be one, but it seems we are so out of sync. I believe we both notice this. Perhaps, we are both craving someone and continuing our communications in hopes that the other is malleable, yet solid enough to fill the companion mold.
I text Caballito in PR. He always responds. He writes, “I miss you.” Yet, I am angry. I need more. I need him to make me feel as if he is there, some permanence, some security. I need him to be a companion from afar, yet he is failing miserably. He misses me. He craves me. So does Rediscoveringme. Yet, these are physical arrangements donning a mask of emotions.
Reading “Mr. Unavailable” as per T’s recommendation has made me realize that all of these men are not even a fragment of the companions that I wrongly am fooled to believe they are. I am left, hollow.
I know this feeling will pass, but I am in a fog of emptiness. My girlfriends are here vying for my attention. Although, they can’t fulfill what I am desperately seeking. I will see them and kiss kiss goodbye, sink into a cab and feel, perhaps, lonelier. I need to lie in bed and be held. Cuddle. Talk. I miss the exes. I am missing everyone who has given me this.
What the hell do I do? I know that I must fulfill this hole elsewhere. I recognize that I love my independence and that there are pros to having this emptiness. That I choose this. That I am a Ms. Unavailable, but in this moment, I want to sink into nothing. Or even grab the man on the laptop in the corner. And rest my head on his shoulder. Take me home. Let us put socks on and sweats and watch some daytime movies. I can’t work like this.
And this double life, this double life will perpetuate this hole. Any man who wants a girlfriend, who is emotionally available, does not want me.