I spent roughly 20 minutes tonight just staring at my wall, while Greek Tragedy played in the background for the 13th time. Now it’s two in the morning and I have errands to do in the morning plus an interview. I should be sleeping right now. I should be dreaming of having forgotten all the words while performing in front of people—one of my recurring nightmares.
But I’m here trying to sort through all the feelings I’ve been trying to process for the past week, both the good and the sad. But it’s like looking at all your favourite books and deciding which one to open and read; it’s both dangerous and exciting, and I’m not sure if I’m ready to dive into a sea of emotions once I spend time to feel them.
I will say this, though. Sometimes, when you think you’ve finally moved on from something and thought that you were able to rise above a bad situation like a trooper, years later you will realize that it’s that belief that has partly fucked you up for other people in the first place. I’m still trying to be a good friend and I sincerely love people, but I always come off either emotionally distant or just plain cold.
Because the truth is I don’t really say things I’m supposed to. I could write you a poem about how you feel. I could analyse the shit out of a conversation you thought didn’t mean anything. I could tell what you’re thinking, just going by your body language or even carefully picked euphemisms. But we have our own emotional quick sands we try to avoid. One word, one reminder, one name—and we will sink into whatever version of emotional hell we have.
And I guess you will forever be one of mine.