I want this to end. The nights crying silently on the phone, feeling bad and self-hating about something you said.
Yesterday I was more or less forced to go to a party. It wasn’t so bad because it was a pancake kind of party and people didn’t drink. I didn’t enjoy being around them, but I didn’t suffer either. Maybe it’s nice to be detached from one’s emotions sometimes.
However, during that 5 hours, I kept feeling the urge to go home and suffer. To be in pain. As I was walking home from the metro, I was somewhat relieved that I could finally do that. There was a strange sense of comfort when I thought about the pain that awaited me in my loneliness.
The girl who hosted the party talked about this guy in our class who asked her out then got devastated when she rejected him. He thought they were something because they slept together; the sex was good, but she didn’t love him. She said that he told her about how unhappy he had been all his life, and that she was his last bit of happiness. Everyone gave a mocking laugh and agreed that he was full of self-pity, or ‘misérabilisme’, as one of them put it. I had the same reaction, but now that I think about it, I feel sorry for the guy. Maybe he was truly unhappy. Maybe he was hoping that by exposing his vulnerability to her, he would gain her compassion. Maybe he just wanted to share with someone who he thought might care. I was uncomfortable about him becoming a topic for gossip, but then again, if I were her, maybe I would despise him too.
Unrequited love is sad, but at the same time no one is obliged to love you back, so maybe it’s just a natural part of being human. Then I think about my best friend who recently had a heartbreak, and I try to put myself in her shoes to imagine what she’s been going through, but I can’t. I think about you, since you must be suffering right now, but I can’t feel that either. I’m incapable of imagining anyone’s pain other than mine, let alone understanding or sharing. What an awful creature I am. Maybe I do deserve to be unhappy.
I often feel so small and light that my existence doesn’t count much and I can go unnoticed or even disappear without having any effect on this world. Nevertheless, I’m still a body; I still eat, urinate, occupy a residential unit, and have my identity registered by all kinds of authorities. I may feel dead, but my physical body keeps functioning. Dying is not that easy. I have to deal with this cumbersome thing which is the body. And as humans we have built a whole culture around death (that is essentially for the livings). It’s as if you could never escape.
So here it is, the end of summer. An entire three months of love with two people whom I treasure the most and who keep giving me reason to stay alive, even sometimes against my will. Going back to life in France and seeing people again feel less like a burden now. It’s not that I’ve regained the taste of casual company. But I’ve managed to shelter myself from the exasperation that it may cause me.
I wonder how long this feeling will last. How long I can be okay. Because I need to be okay – not that I desperately want to be ‘cured’ or to be normal, but it’s exhausting to go through a breakdown, and I don’t know how much longer I can still endure that, how many breakdowns I have left until I completely give in, and fade. The truth is sometimes I do want to live, when I think about our future with all the things that I want to share with you and the life that we would have together. But I’m tired, I’m just so tired. I’ve never been a driven person, I always leave the battle to other people. So how can I strive to find myself a place in this world, which involves competing and calculating for the sake of self-seeking?
The only thing I ever fought for so vehemently, that I though I’d never quit, turned out not to be even a thing. It has drained me. I can feel my faith crumble to the point of irreparability. I might not be unhappy anymore, but now there’s a cynicism lurking beneath every positive feeling I have. I’ve given myself this summer doing purposeless things. I thought that maybe when I finished those books, I would be healed. Now I realize that there will never be a deadline for healing. My best friend needed two years to ‘get over’ her story. But she didn’t set out to do it; it just happened. So I feel better now, I might actually am, but I also might not. I can only keep going about my days and see what happens. Until when, until when.
J’attends mon amie à la sortie du métro. Le vent humide et légèrement glacial traverse mes cheveux. Je m’assieds sur un bord de mur et reprends ma lecture. Il s’agit d’un recueil de nouvelles de Le Clézio, mon auteur préféré. Des “faits divers” transformés en récits poétiques et brûlants sur des vies en fuite. Je m’évade tout de suite vers des terres lointaines, dénudées et abandonnées. Le temps de la lecture rallonge ainsi la “vraie” durée de mon attente.
Depuis que je suis arrivée à P., j’ai appris à lire dans n’importe quel endroit et à n’importe quel moment. Souvent, mes temps de lecture correspondaient à mes temps d’attente. Souvent, j’attendais une seule chose. Et souvent, j’attendais devant les entrées du métro. Alors, aujourd’hui, quand j’attends mon amie, je me sens emportée vers un autre espace-temps (au sens anthropologique du terme), et plus spécifiquement, vers la ville que je viens de quitter. J’ai l’impression d’attendre la même chose que j’ai attendue tant de fois là-bas. Désormais, peu importe où je suis, ce sera mon unique objet d’attente. Et je tarde à quitter le livre des yeux, à mettre fin à mon attente, afin de rester dans cet univers où ce sera toujours toi que je voir arriver lorsque je lève la tête.
A magpie walks on a balcony railing on fifth floor. Then it flies to a tree from the garden below. When it sets off, it just lets itself drop into the air. It gets absorbed into the leafy branches, then all of a sudden the bird spreads its wings and soars up to the top of the tree. The whole scene happens within a second. Then I think that is how I would like to kill myself. A suicide that does not end with death. Because I do not want to live until I cannot. And so I have to do it; I have to set out to die in order to regret it. But as soon as I embark on the journey towards death, right when I leave the wall, the balcony, the window, the rooftop, or whatever it is that still keeps me alive, a pair of wings will be released from my body and bring me back.
J’ai envie soudain de m’enfermer dans la cave, même si elle évoque une ambiance de thriller, puisque je n’aime pas la lumière et je me sens en sécurité là où elle n’atteint pas. La douceur de l’ombre atténue l’acuité de la lumière. On dit que les plantes tendent vers la lumière car elle apporte la vie, pourquoi ne demande-t-on pas ce qu’elles font dans la nuit? Leur vie n’arrête certainement pas lorsque le soleil se retire. Et puis, au-dessous des arbres, c’est l’obscurité qui règne. Là où on cherche refuge.