10 August, 2016

But My Name is Lame, I Can't Walk and I Ain't the Same

writing on sad uneventful days

Angel left for bootcamp. The evening he left, he sent a message explaining that he only had a short amount of time left before he couldn't communicate over the phone anymore. I sent a long string of hurried messages, explaining that he'd be missed and a reminder to write and to take care of himself. Then, he sent Dani and I one last message: "Girls, I love you. I gotta go now." I'm not sure why I feel it so heavily, but I do.


I begin to do that shitty thing in which I re-read my old journals, where I was decidedly happier. I compare who I am to who I was. I decide I don't want to be around either version of myself.


the moon, my girlfriend

I am sleepy and nonverbal for a couple of days in a row, and I ignore this warning sign, because I routinely punish myself with isolation for pitying myself. I observe my mind feeling sorry for itself for being sad and alone, and I stick my nose up at it, and say Well, you should have though about that before making everything about you. However, the couple of days turn into a week and then this turns into two weeks which turns into a really long stretch of time in which I vacantly stare into space and I realize that I don't remember any specific activity I did during that time, it seems like the days are repeating themselves and I'm stuck in a loop of being apathetic and irritable.


I try to let Eckhart Tolle convince me that I don't have to feel what I'm feeling by closing my eyes and meditating on this, but after struggling and squeezing my eyes shut for a couple of minutes, I think to myself that I'm not feeling anything, that's the problem, and I don't know where I want to go.



On a bus ride in Los Angeles, my phone's battery drains, and I become lost trying to reach West Hollywood at 10 PM.  Next to me, a group of teenage boys toss a foam football from across the aisle to each other.  They're talking about so many different, innocent things, which I find so amusing, that I need to record somehow.  Unable to type it into my phone, I pull a pen from my bag and begin to quickly transcribe what I'm overhearing on to my hand, as inconspicuously as I can.


A month passes.  In the middle of my apathy, Amani visits me all the way from New York City.  She brings with her: love, unconditional love; warmth, despite how much colder it is where she's coming from; good habits.  I spend a week loving and being loved by a group of people that doesn't have to bother loving me.  They don't have to, I'm no where near them any more.  Still, it feels as though no time has passed since I saw them last.  I laugh just as high-pitchedly as I would have if I still lived on the East Coast.  They spend a week in awe of Southern California.  When I drop them off at the bus station on their last day, I cry hot, quiet tears.  I keep crying as I get into my car, I cry as I drive past them and wave solemnly out the window, I cry all the way home, and the tears pool in my lap.


flowers
i was trying to write down what this group of boys was talking about on the bus