better

It’s friday night and I’m on my own. For the first time since I’ve been here.

A sign that I am finally settling in?

A cup of tea, dark chocolate digestive biscuits, a good thick book.
And my laptop.

I have been here for nearly two months and I still haven’t a clue of what I am doing.

I don’t remember what happened. I can piece together some parts of the day, from lunch to dinner. And then, I vaguely remember flashes of whites and yellows. And pinks. My pink shirt in red blood. How unfashionable. And all these voices... My vain efforts to spell out my name, remembering to see if my jeans were still on, relief that they were. I remember nothing in between. Just wiping my tears away the next day. Trying not to cry. Thinking ‘what the fuck…' . Over and over. And wishing my mother was there. To hold me and make it all better.

...What. The. Fuck?

What am I still doing here? So much money and effort and sweat and tears and blood. Literally. For what exactly? Could I not draw and paint and read and soak myself in the life I need back in the comfort of my own bed, my own friends, my own family? In my own home? I am confused.

It is eight. He hasn’t called yet.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I seem to have found myself in strange territories.

He is a good man. He is kind and gentle and warm. And so gifted... But I don’t know what to do of him. And I'm lousy at this because I foresee the end. How, why and when. And I am unable to filter these thoughts. Through my mouth. With every kiss.

Such a terrible way to begin. Or live.

I have been listening to that Regina Spektor song in hoops. The one that goes ‘...uh-oh’. Or ‘ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah-aaaahhh’. And/or. Repeat and shuffle. She’s got great hair. I need a haircut. I can’t stand my fringe anymore. And my skin is acting out. It’s allergic to him. His budding beard.

It’s so silly, I keep saying to myself...

It’s too soon. Unusual circumstances.
It can never sustain itself in my natural context.
It doesn’t mean anything. Whatever that means.
Stop worrying about it. Planning its doom.




...And when I’ll go home, will I miss him?




Such useless questions when there is really only one to ask...