I sit on stories. Decisions that have become tales etched onto my skin, as much of me as my tattoos, my scars. I think of the things I have done, and those things I have yet to do, for my life is not over yet. I think of my stories and if there is any meaning that be gleaned from them, if there is any merit in sharing, what at times feels like, a tragedy.
I keep different time to others, sometimes I am awake at 3am and watching the sunrise in the summer, at times I'm in bed by 7pm, curled up under duvets against the cold and hard world. I feel floaty and heavy at the same time. I remember everything but then feel like I remember nothing of substance, nothing that is really worth it.
There are hints, that sometimes make me believe I missed something big. That maybe I went left instead of right, or vice versa, or that that was the moment that I should have learnt I could fly.
But through nature or nurture it's always the bad things that capture my attention, the memories that I remember when laying in bed are never sweet, they're just every time I've ever been told that I am not good enough, and that I won't be good enough. Which is funny because I have pressed people for those words time and time again, as if hearing that I am not enough from another is validation of sorts. For someone who isn't actually a fan of confrontation, when I'm backed against the wall my bite is just as bad as my bark.
I remember, clear as day, laying in convalescence, shouting down the phone to the man who had decided he didn't care enough that that was exactly what he should be saying to me. He tried, as men are want to do, to use platitudes, "It's not you, it's me", "I'm not in a place for a relationship" etc etc. With, exhaustion(?), weariness(?) he eventually admitted he didn't care enough about me, and as I want to do, I felt vindicated.
I'm not saying he's a bad person for not wanting me, I only took this meandering tale because I've just read this on Man-Repeller about breaking-up shame.
But all of this is chaff the the wheat, I've been reading so much fantasy and sci-fi and magic lately that real world, once again feels lacking. And the only person who can change that is me.