It's not quiet, but not boisterous, the walk home from the movie theater past bars in the tenderloin/lower nob hill. Last week, after the double feature of girls night out movies, we spied a couple slowly having sex in the passenger seat of a white Mustang. It was parked at a meter. 1 AM.
Then, 3 blocks later, another couple mad making out in the car. I think I smiled in the dark and remarked about what was in the air. Only the sky, pregnant with the threat of rain, I thought.
It's not a trudge, but also not a stroll. It's a simple movement from A to B, unnoticed and everyday. I like things like that--they are so often the middle child.
My shoulders are aching again. I keep rubbing them, but feel self-conscious of the hands that do not touch them, or of the people who possibly see me and then how they might think of their lovers or friends or simply of past hands which touch them.
My body is not starving, it does not crave, but it misses. I think it knows better than to yearn. Ashamed and resigned, it gets drunk so that sleep overflows the segue of pain and dreams.
But I've stopped drinking. This is a difficult task. I guess I will relish acuity. Sharpness of breath in the pain my mind brings, and my limbs will bear.
Misery is not a companion. It's the beautiful thing, and I'm some Rumplestiltskin whirring hay into gold--misery into beautiful thoughts which stow in my mind. Alone, childless, I can do this, but I want what the others have. I don't want gold.
It is still difficult to get myself to move. To go about my normal routine and daily life--The past two days I skipped on the gym and just went home to do nothing. It was nice. I've been spending a lot of time watching movies in the theatres--four hour nights, plus sex-spotting walks home in slight sketchy parts of town. Illustrious, and I don't have to work the streets.
No, I'm not numb, but like the sky pregnant with the promise of rain, my body bears constantly the threat of keening.
I am tired, and want to just be asleep, in a movie, or strewn.
This has become my island. It's no lie: it would be the same anywhere else--there is really nothing tying me here. I may want to cling to nice, lovely notions. But for me, when I turn off the lights at night, it's still the same mess untouched. The same aching shoulder. The same silent keening wince into slumber.
I want what I want, but I cannot force it. Hopeful waiting for it is still a tacit coercion. There is no wishful thinking. Only whirring, stealing first-borns, and trying to convince myself each time I see my reflection that I am not a worthless ugly human being.
Thank you, February.
