November 14 is a friend’s birthday, but I deactivated my Facebook, so I can’t congratulate him. I could easily email him, but it would be awkward because we haven’t spoken in sixteen months. He used to say that birthdays didn’t mean anything to him. Throughout my life, I met a lot of people like that. It makes me lose interest in my own birthday too. Even without Facebook reminders, there are still people out there who will always remember my birthday – mainly my family and relatives, who read their daily fortunes on the Chinese calendar.
Right now, I feel lonely. There are days I’d rather be on my own, and I would insinuate it as best as I can, even if I come across as the coldest person you’ve ever met.
I wish my bf were here with me, but he chose to go out–fair enough. After all, he can’t read minds. Why stay with the miserable girlfriend, who, right now, shows no affection. I never ask to be held, even if I want to. Most of the time, I don’t want to be held. No one is a mind reader, and I don’t like to talk, so I guess I’m in no position to complain when I don’t get what I need.
The main reason why I don’t want him to hold me is that I can’t hold back my tears, especially with my current inexplicable emotions that wander into delirium and despair. The other day in bed, he didn’t even notice how my tears were rolling onto his shirt while he hugged me from behind. Silent cries are only possible if you’re numb and focused at the same time. Sometimes hugs don’t make me feel a thing, and sometimes they do.
And all that because I said a while ago that I would not cry in front of him again. So I suppressed my tears as best as I could. It feels wrong as I speak it out.
I didn’t know that choosing to be lonely would feel so cold. Right now, I want to deal with it alone, as I deserve it. In a way, I need it. This is the only thing I really, really know.
It’s no longer my friend’s birthday back in Europe, where he resides. I don’t know why I’m thinking about him, but I am. He was the last to sprinkle dust on my romantic fantasies. Afterwards, all hope had died, and I knew whatever came next would either make me genuinely happy or kill me entirely.
Right now, I could be happy, but I can’t help feeling that it would be a lie. There’s no love if you have no personal passion for pursuing it. I’m talking about art. Right now, I have no space to pursue anything. There’s a loss of focus.
So far, only unrequited love has inspired me to write short fiction like Shakespeare, seeking muses for the moment. One part of me wants to be that person again. I’m seeking a high and would be ready to take the pain if I can filter it into something meaningful.
The other part of me is valuing the current consistency of being loved unconditionally. But being a loser in responding to unconditional love is my problem. I’m that close to throwing it all away and go back home. I’m not sure why I’m still here. Why am I doing this to myself and others around me? They can have the time of their lives whenever and wherever. Whatever joy it is, I can’t relate or connect. I won’t ever be part of this mayhem.
My entire body is cold. This is how you would feel when no one understands you. And you just inflicted it on yourself.
