Tomorrow is my birthday and I’m feeling pretty unenthused about it. This year I’ve been the most isolated than I have in 7 years or so. Probably more so, in some ways. There were always friends, men, flirtations- lots to distract me from myself. Today, nothing is wrong from the outside: I’m not in any danger, I live in a lovely place, I have work, my health. But I’m alone. Removed. Secluded. Not as in “on a mountaintop away from the world” but as in overly conscious of my separateness. And fear that it will only increase. I’m getting older. I’m getting at that age where the assumptions of marriage are overwhelming and exhausting by a well-meaning but crude public. I’m indignant about the suggestion but also starting to feel almost left out of the normal person loop. Why am I so different so often?
I used to have so many people in my life but I’ve since opted to leave the two organizations/ outfits that offered themselves as community- and amazingly, the friendships were only part of the deal if you stayed on. This is a good thing of course. But its a strange time going from people everywhere- all claiming to adore you and who really “have your back” to walking away and noting that it wasn’t you they adored at all. That you, darling, were duped. This has been a big lesson. I’ve had to learn it over and over again. The falling for the false love. The intent and rabid grabbing for crumbs lest I completely starve- and imagining the crumbs a banquet.
And I don’t feel much hope that there is any sort of partnership in my future. Which sounds arguably silly considering my age. But, there you have it. That love doesn’t really pan out in reality. And how long do you risk hoping. Hope is painful. It drains you. And the escape routes have closed themselves off to me. No more drinking, drugging, fucking, smoking, overeating, ignoring, denying or media-ing out. I am now only the escapist in rationed fragments despite myself. I don’t really get the luxury of disappearance anymore. Too intent on fucking transcendence. Too sick of repeating obvious patterns. To stubborn and insistent on a better life. And this is what I get. Quiet. Jarring silence that inspires anxiety or paralyzes me with sleepy forgetfulness. Solitude that forces the mirror onto me. Oceans of grey that fortune bleak repetitions. And, who is this woman that causes men to fall stupidly in love. Who is she that inspires epics and protestations of adoration? I’m jealous of her. This unnamed siren. The muse. Was I striving to be something that’s only transient? A ghost wanderer? A mirage? An illusion? I didn’t subscribe to reality enough to comprehend good old fashioned healthy partnership. The practicalities of marriage and family. The white picket fence. This probably would have been the practical thing to do. But I had to be a romantic. And that never ends well. Look at Byron. Or Shelley.
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