It is at this time where I feel most quiet, I guess. It’s different when you’re at this point where there is nothing going for you at all. I’m in between the last of this day and the first of the next, and sometimes I miss those times before when days would run by faster, waking up to something to look forward to. I know I have a lot ahead of me, but they seem so far away for now, or at least they don’t have that much significance to me yet– knowing that most of the choices going forward are mere stepping stones to what I want (or don’t want initially).
Norah Jones plays on loop as I absorb the heat in the room, knowing that despite the 34-degree eve, I am not stifled, but rather unfeeling. It isn’t that I am devoid of it, but rather I don’t know what emotion to play in at this hour. The moments that made me feel most vulnerable are things I no longer remember. The pain I feel now is more the aftermath — because usually the sting hurts more in the epilogue rather than the middle because in the middle you’re caught between before and after. You’re usually caught off guard, battling the choices between “this will never happen?” and “how could this happen?” It’s terrible then that I no longer what it feels like, after feeling so much.
The memories of March, February, and January no longer make sense to me anymore, as if they happened so long ago that even the photographs I keep do not linger in my head for more than a second. The feelings I had during those moments are unfamiliar to me now. I didn’t choose to not remember, but rather I had to numb myself from feeling too much, period. Numb is more the appropriate feeling rather than sadness because the latter still makes it seem like you still care, and I for one am starting not to.
I relish these moments of solitude sometimes (even if I don’t ask for it). I still feel the heat of my anger, of my frustration ebb into my fingers as I type because I need to allow myself to be angry. But it’s a peaceful kind of angry, it’s not the stab-from-behind, off-with-your-head kind of thing. I keep a balance sometimes in the early morning, where the vulnerability lingers strongest. But at least I know when those come up and it’s a pattern I hope I shouldn’t get so used to.
It’s no use crying over spilled milk, they said. But what’s even more of no use is crying over milk that never spilled, but curdled. The difference there was the possibility of taking a hold of it and satisfying the question of thirst but instead let it stay until the thirst worsened. There is no oasis in the abyss of the lonely, and I am quite proud to say that I have never gone too far.