Where did I go?
Like some long sequence, some drawn out affair, meant I lost myself. What happened to song, to dance, to fun? If you’re with someone do you bury a personality chunk? I just want simple things. Like an intoxicating adventure. I already know I’m too old to be writing in a diary-blog such as things. I almost forgot about it entirely. A huge amount has happened since my last post in May. And we’re still having problems. Does that incur something?
The thing we’re fighting about now, hysterically, is how to spend New Year’s. I just feel.. sedated about it. We don’t exactly party together. Maybe many couples are like that? But we don’t go out nuts-awesome-crazy-ecstatic together. There’s always a little bit of weirdness (jealously, insecurity..) involved.
I had a Christmas Eve dinner with pilots in a mediocre hotel near Geneva airport. And I’m wondering seriously, what happened here? Last year it was much the same, but I still had the gutso to go out and meet people in a Soviet-era inspired bar in Riga. Tomorrow – Christmas Day – we fly from here to Riyadh. How supremely lame.
This festive morale and seasonal frantic joy implanted itself in me, I was trying to be a part of it. I called my Mum and sister (didn’t connect/no answer) and sent a message to my brother. They barely count as ‘family’, I don’t know why I even bothered?
And what the fuck am I doing in Scotland? I never liked the UK culture. I never liked small cities or towns. What a mess. At this point (rose-induced contemplation) I’m not entirely sure I’m capable of loving anyone fully or properly. I’m resentful of the aging process and of the expectation of the hallmarks of life, of children, and partnership.
I remember being a pessimist as a teenager. I think I haven’t strayed far from that now, in my mid-twenties. So I should be expecting to carry that attitude for pretty much the remainder of it, right? That really… sucks. I already feel morbidly ancient at 25. I think I will need to heavily self-medicate for the rest of my life. Happy haze? Other people have religion, and the fantasy (?) of love. I can placate my world with SSRIs then, surely.
The odd, odd thing is, that I’m 25, with the open option to try to organize some awesome European road trip with a wonderful, gorgeous guy. Something in France, Italy, wherever. But there’s something missing. New Year’s is the time, if there’s any, to invite madness in. And I just don’t see that happening. I see a domestic, comfort-emphasized life with him, but nothing raw or real.