Loneliness. Part One, it seems.
I was leafing through the many different notebooks I have kept since college the other day, and stumbled upon one that was with me through both college and after. I used it once since then, it appears, and although I do remember using it I had since put it away and not remembered using it. If you follow me.
What I found was some writing I had done after an ended relationship. My current girlfriend, Nichole, and I have been together almost two years now. We are just recently moved in together and everything is going well as I'm sure you were wondering and are happy to hear it.
Previously, I was in a relationship that lasted roughly two and a half years or so. I won't go into the details, both because you don't really care to hear them and I feel like I'm so far past it that it doesn't even matter anymore. Also, I tend to keep things light and fluffy and this is getting dangerously close to personal.
So why post it? Good question. I found it intriguing to go back and look at what state I was in, which, if you go on to read this whole post, was "Not a good one." Not hopeless, but full of self-pity and pure awareness of said self-pity. There will be more, as I wrote several pages worth. This is just the first part, where for some reason I wrote in third-person. Did I intend for this to come across as someone else? Was it my own way of putting myself out of the situation in order to convey a sense of neutrality or lack of care? No one knows, and until I am able to work it like Hiro and travel though time, we can only speculate.
So enjoy, I really did find it rather interesting.
That might be because I wrote it and it was about myself, though. You never can tell.
__________________________
Loneliness doesn’t just appear. It’s not like a surge of anger or a barked laugh. It grows. It cultivates. You do not wake up realizing, “I’m lonely.” You wake up and feel hunger or pain. No one has woken up feeling lonely when they went to bed with none of those thoughts. It’s when you realize life has changed. Loneliness is coming home night after night to no one after having someone there every night before. Loneliness is renting a video game and three movies you intend to return the next day. It’s having seen every single sex scene in every B-movie appearing nightly on Showtime or Cinemax. Looking at the mess around you and not caring.
Loneliness is thinking up ways to describe loneliness.
That’s how he felt. A bag of Pepperidge Farm goldfish has been sitting on the coffee table for 5 days now, untouched. Are you kidding me? Two loads of laundry accomplished? He knew everything was going to change before she even left, and yet the desire to keep things the same keeps him from even straightening up. Laziness accompanied with a general malaise stops the trash from being taken out or the fish tank from being cleaned. He looks at the green film on the side of the tank and does nothing. He can see the green attaching itself to the fake stems and fake plants and doesn’t move.
What would it take to clean? 20 minutes? At most? But no, apparently self pity takes precedence. Waiting for the change to happen instead of making it happen. He searches his apartment for inspiration and it looks back at him with no sympathy. Is it even home yet? It was supposed to be, then she disappeared. It wasn’t sudden, it wasn’t a surprise. It might have been entirely upsetting, once the anger dissipated. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it before.
Numerous times, really. Of course, his fantasy of the aftermath was nowhere near what is real. It couldn’t be, and he knew it. The idea still lives in his mind. Every day. Did he trick himself into thinking this is what he wanted? Or was it just easier that way? If this is what he wanted, then the loneliness embedded into is bones must be a fabrication. An invention. It feels too real, though. He has friends. Close, and yet distant. One works nine to five, Monday to Friday. One is unemployed, about 40 minutes away. One is two hours away. One is moving to Alaska. What’s the capital of Alaska? Juneau? I don’t know, Juneau? I don’t know, Alaska. One can be found any night of the week at a choice of two bars. His own work schedule leaves him the afternoons free. He sleeps through them. On his days off, he rises in the late afternoon and wallows in himself until close to late night, when he finally leaves his apartment and drives directly to the bar. He calls no one, he doesn’t answer the two calls he may get.
She called him today, actually. He didn’t answer. Call her to check up, the message said. He hasn’t called back. He will, later, when the likelihood of getting the voicemail is highest. She comes to move out most of her stuff tomorrow. He doesn’t know when, but he doesn’t want to be here. And Viola! His boss calls and gives him an early call time to work, approximately 3½ hours early. Go figure. Is he supposed to be miserable?
His thoughts consist of winning the lottery, or suddenly being granted the power to make things happen. The power to read minds, or make people do what he wants, or stop time, or hundreds of other scenarios in which every desire he has is fulfilled. Irrational, comic-book-driven thoughts that have absolutely no bearing on reality. These things will never happen and he is fully aware of that and cannot let the ideas go. Can’t leave it alone.
The question pops into his head every single day. WHY. Why me why him why now why then why the fuck not? Never deserved this. And at the same time he knows he does. He deserves all of it. Because of wasted potential. Could’ve could’ve could’ve. No should’ve. Fuck should’ve. He didn’t, so there is no should’ve. Another why. Why can’t he go back? But to only some parts, so the others can remain. It’s dumb and stupid and pointless and it will not leave. No matter how hard the thoughts are pushed they will not budge and it can become maddening.
Tears pop up but almost never pass the lid. Anger boils and immediately gets taken off the burner. How long until it goes too far? How long can it be squashed? He has thoughts of letting it out. He knows it would be pointless and he would be beaten. This fear seems to control the anger. The rage develops but the fear dominates.
His hand hurts, and it’s getting kind of dark and the lights are out. He has about two hours before he goes outside. Now it’s time to lament his loss, fill one of the voids with some food. Maybe jerk off. Probably jerk off.
And the nightly battle to stop caring.
He likes pastrami.
What I found was some writing I had done after an ended relationship. My current girlfriend, Nichole, and I have been together almost two years now. We are just recently moved in together and everything is going well as I'm sure you were wondering and are happy to hear it.
Previously, I was in a relationship that lasted roughly two and a half years or so. I won't go into the details, both because you don't really care to hear them and I feel like I'm so far past it that it doesn't even matter anymore. Also, I tend to keep things light and fluffy and this is getting dangerously close to personal.
So why post it? Good question. I found it intriguing to go back and look at what state I was in, which, if you go on to read this whole post, was "Not a good one." Not hopeless, but full of self-pity and pure awareness of said self-pity. There will be more, as I wrote several pages worth. This is just the first part, where for some reason I wrote in third-person. Did I intend for this to come across as someone else? Was it my own way of putting myself out of the situation in order to convey a sense of neutrality or lack of care? No one knows, and until I am able to work it like Hiro and travel though time, we can only speculate.
So enjoy, I really did find it rather interesting.
That might be because I wrote it and it was about myself, though. You never can tell.
__________________________
Loneliness doesn’t just appear. It’s not like a surge of anger or a barked laugh. It grows. It cultivates. You do not wake up realizing, “I’m lonely.” You wake up and feel hunger or pain. No one has woken up feeling lonely when they went to bed with none of those thoughts. It’s when you realize life has changed. Loneliness is coming home night after night to no one after having someone there every night before. Loneliness is renting a video game and three movies you intend to return the next day. It’s having seen every single sex scene in every B-movie appearing nightly on Showtime or Cinemax. Looking at the mess around you and not caring.
Loneliness is thinking up ways to describe loneliness.
That’s how he felt. A bag of Pepperidge Farm goldfish has been sitting on the coffee table for 5 days now, untouched. Are you kidding me? Two loads of laundry accomplished? He knew everything was going to change before she even left, and yet the desire to keep things the same keeps him from even straightening up. Laziness accompanied with a general malaise stops the trash from being taken out or the fish tank from being cleaned. He looks at the green film on the side of the tank and does nothing. He can see the green attaching itself to the fake stems and fake plants and doesn’t move.
What would it take to clean? 20 minutes? At most? But no, apparently self pity takes precedence. Waiting for the change to happen instead of making it happen. He searches his apartment for inspiration and it looks back at him with no sympathy. Is it even home yet? It was supposed to be, then she disappeared. It wasn’t sudden, it wasn’t a surprise. It might have been entirely upsetting, once the anger dissipated. It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about it before.
Numerous times, really. Of course, his fantasy of the aftermath was nowhere near what is real. It couldn’t be, and he knew it. The idea still lives in his mind. Every day. Did he trick himself into thinking this is what he wanted? Or was it just easier that way? If this is what he wanted, then the loneliness embedded into is bones must be a fabrication. An invention. It feels too real, though. He has friends. Close, and yet distant. One works nine to five, Monday to Friday. One is unemployed, about 40 minutes away. One is two hours away. One is moving to Alaska. What’s the capital of Alaska? Juneau? I don’t know, Juneau? I don’t know, Alaska. One can be found any night of the week at a choice of two bars. His own work schedule leaves him the afternoons free. He sleeps through them. On his days off, he rises in the late afternoon and wallows in himself until close to late night, when he finally leaves his apartment and drives directly to the bar. He calls no one, he doesn’t answer the two calls he may get.
She called him today, actually. He didn’t answer. Call her to check up, the message said. He hasn’t called back. He will, later, when the likelihood of getting the voicemail is highest. She comes to move out most of her stuff tomorrow. He doesn’t know when, but he doesn’t want to be here. And Viola! His boss calls and gives him an early call time to work, approximately 3½ hours early. Go figure. Is he supposed to be miserable?
His thoughts consist of winning the lottery, or suddenly being granted the power to make things happen. The power to read minds, or make people do what he wants, or stop time, or hundreds of other scenarios in which every desire he has is fulfilled. Irrational, comic-book-driven thoughts that have absolutely no bearing on reality. These things will never happen and he is fully aware of that and cannot let the ideas go. Can’t leave it alone.
The question pops into his head every single day. WHY. Why me why him why now why then why the fuck not? Never deserved this. And at the same time he knows he does. He deserves all of it. Because of wasted potential. Could’ve could’ve could’ve. No should’ve. Fuck should’ve. He didn’t, so there is no should’ve. Another why. Why can’t he go back? But to only some parts, so the others can remain. It’s dumb and stupid and pointless and it will not leave. No matter how hard the thoughts are pushed they will not budge and it can become maddening.
Tears pop up but almost never pass the lid. Anger boils and immediately gets taken off the burner. How long until it goes too far? How long can it be squashed? He has thoughts of letting it out. He knows it would be pointless and he would be beaten. This fear seems to control the anger. The rage develops but the fear dominates.
His hand hurts, and it’s getting kind of dark and the lights are out. He has about two hours before he goes outside. Now it’s time to lament his loss, fill one of the voids with some food. Maybe jerk off. Probably jerk off.
And the nightly battle to stop caring.
He likes pastrami.
