It was always hard to determine whether or not my father was mad at me at one particular moment. He'd always come up to me with a wide grin on his face one moment and lean his forehead on mine and say, “You are the greatest gift life has ever given me.” And it completes my day, only to see it fade away a few minutes later when he rages about me being unappreciative without having done anything to rue him. It's been really difficult with his mood swings. Sometimes I just thought of leaving him and going somewhere else on my own, build my own stories and all that jazz. I just couldn't. Not without swallowing a sense of guilt I could do without. So I linger on, waiting for the day life will do its own magic, while I'm stuck here waiting for god knows what and lord knows when.
Five days ago was my twenty-eighth birthday. I almost couldn't guess the right number had I not peeked into my Facebook profile. I celebrated the occasion by lying in bed all day whilst people greeted me on Facebook. I swear the number of greetings I receive each year dwindles exponentially, and I try not to make any absurd meaning out of this behaviour, but I'm hoping it's not because people don't care about me any more. I usually don't worry about these kinds of stuff, but I am not one without feelings. I'm a person too, you know. I just think it's wearing itself out in fashion, as a result of longevity, I reckon. Facebook is such old news by now. You hear the same thing about it: every single one not hiding under a rock has it. Your friends, your friends' friends, your friend's enemies, your enemies, your enemies' friends, your enemies' enemies. Even Jesus Christ, the Lord, your God, has one, if you look hard enough, and his page is flooded with photographs of cats in various poses that are often times hilarious, sometimes controversial, with captions in them, words and letters jumbled together in bad grammar in order to attract the ire of those with the authority to do so, with persons such as Stephen Fry, for instance.
Now I'm just glad to be basking in my own solitude, sitting in a corner inside a Starbucks beneath Tower Bridge by the lonesome, listening to music, writing, procrastinating, basically letting go of everything that felt like home. This actually feels empowering somehow. Kathrin invited me to visit the Sky Garden nearby. She's an old friend and I wanted to see her since she'll be leaving London in about a week or so to go back home to her mother in Bavaria, probably move in with his Spanish boyfriend somewhere in Germany. So she's unavailable for me to love, and I am perfectly fine with that. Yes, for sure. So she left after an hour and now I'm here. But it's fine. I needed this more than I realise. Being out in the open and learning to appreciate my aloneness more rather than be preoccupied by loneliness is the only way I can see how I can move on from everything. I still feel a tinge of sadness from time to time. Moving on from a broken past is a process, and I used to laugh at this. I have seen this happen to other people, and now it's happening to me. It's a huge sacrifice in my part. And whenever the maudlin creeps in, I'm done for. But that's what sacrifices are for, otherwise it wouldn't be a sacrifice.
So I'm staying here for awhile. People came and people went. The store became spacier as time went on, with no worry on sight. I became attuned with my surroundings; the smell of macchiato being prepped on the counter or the sound of utensils clanking in the kitchen. The conversation with strangers in the corner turned my ear sideways as they spoke of infidelities and murderous intentions towards their insignificant others. The burning lust in their voice as they open up about their fantasies, tales of their wants that could never be, and regrets that slowly creep in. All those emotions boil inside me as well, as I live their words with my own thoughts. Everything became so condensed... and all I did was just allow it all to invade me. At this very moment... all these transformative ideas, these wanky, shallow thoughts made me realise how much I've become a self-aware, pretentious twat with no inkling whatsoever about the secrets of life. Just another two-bit bystander schlocking over a a cauldron wanting to stir whatever shit the witch is concocting up inside. I get buried in my own Bunburyism. I need something going, and this shouldn't be it. Tonight's not going to be the night. I go home, commiserate, sleep, disappear.