guilty pleasure wallowing torture
by Sine Qua Non
This is the sad part about it. Or rather the very honest part. That at the end of the day, literally, or actually at the beginning of a new one, I am nothing more than a sentimental human being enslaved by her own sappy feelings. And here I am, like any pathetic 25-year old, sitting in her pajamas with a Twilight theme song full-blast on repeat, typing away what’s left of my wakefulness.
And this won’t be the end of it. After this very sad, pitiful confession I’ll probably be scribbling in my notebook still. Or not. If I manage to purge all my feelings here now.
What else do I have to say? That I continuously subject myself to torture anyway. That I know for a fact that until something else comes my way, there will be no definite end to days like this, waiting for him to tell me that I’ll see him this weekend.
Or maybe that’s how it ought to end at this point, that until he picks that next weekend for when we could see each other again, there will be nothing else between us but a void of presence where all emotions crash and meld together. How have I brought this upon myself?
I keep saying I’ve laid out all my cards. I have not. I know the four aces are still with me, and those are my final cards. They are not on the table yet. They seem to be, but no not yet. Not concretely. And I will lay it out. But I’ve been dealing all the cards, maybe not all this time, but I’ve been dealing them certainly in the recent encounters. Enough tob make me think that it is indeed his turn to put down some cards of his own.
I’m not going to pull it out of his hand now. I couldn’t care less what his cards are. I just want to be able to lay down all of mine.
God, this song is so awfully soppy. But I keep listening to it. I think it is through this song that I hope to pin my upcoming fatigue of the things ensuing. I will tire of all of this eventually. And I can’t wait. But for the moment, here I am. Writing, writing, writing. Pining, weeping on mornings I wake alone, cringing at every other song, skipping a heartbeat at the mention of his city, frowning at a murdered chat conversation, trying ever so hard to purge him from every fiber of my being.
Oh wow. How hard could that be. How. Hard. Could. That. Be.