Unfortunately, I cannot deny the markedly emotional side of myself. Loneliness: the constant struggle of my insane attempts to feel unique and independent versus my inane want for a person or people to care about me. In a world that constantly tells me that I cannot have it all—you can’t have your cake and eat it too—how am I to make sense of this? This struggle. It rears its ugly head at the most inopportune moments: writing, work, finances, romance, family, friendships and on it goes. I romanticize the idea of having a companion… a partner with whom this struggle wouldn’t seem so intimidating. I imagine a city where I will feel at home. An apartment that doesn’t merely feel like a shell. A life that feels like mine. As it is, I only have tension, sadness met with fleeting happiness, companionships that last only a night, and friends whom I feel I cannot call. With a constant stomachache, I live “my” life in a town posing as a metropolis. I walk to work and to cafes. I make tea in my apartment. I feed my cat. I sleep with my companions. I pay for my food. I overdraw my bank accounts. I fail at my life.
I am not easily tricked into thinking that I have control. Would that I were. Would that I were able to believe that my good deeds would be matched with an equally good return from the universe. That positive energy really does change water molecules. That god exists and that I was capable of being satisfied. What’s horrifying, what is absolutely terrifying, is that I have experienced belief. I have thought myself loveable only to realize that it was my own projection upon myself. I have thought myself confident and capable only to fail miserably and let down the very few, perhaps the only, people in whom I had bred a pride and confidence. I am a scathing, judgmental, and unapproachable person who is quoted for saying about life, “I’m not very good at it.” With every action I see my own review becoming truer and truer. And in those few, shining moments wherein I appear not to fail, the internal awareness of my dishonesty with myself and those around me grows and grows. I read Nabokov and laugh and get butterflies at his remarkable talent with language. I listen to Beethoven’s 14th Piano Sonata and am moved to a short-lived stint of action and creativity. Hegel, Nietzsche, Freud, Marx, Breton… they all grace my everyday conversations and yet, their thoughts, words, and work are simply screens behind which I find myself hiding daily.
But, let us face reality, shall we? Or, shall I? This is really all to do with the most overused, abused, and typically annoying narratives of time: love lost and loneliness. Strange to know how clearly I did not feel so alone and sad before I knew the Subject. One never knows one’s capabilities, do they? Sure, it was meeting Subject and feeling at home. I was beginning to let the imposter town off of the hook for all of the lies it told, as my days in it were now spent with the subject. Comfort began to creep into my life like a thief in the night, as they say. After years of finding solace only in my ability to move, motionless comfort was a new taste—one that I perhaps always knew was possible, but never imagined experiencing. But there I was: comfortably alone with another. The Subject. And the Subject, sharing many of my concerns, social shortcomings, and flawed grasps of understanding knew better. The Subject was better at my life than I. Without so much as a stomach-turn, I was given furnitureial status in Subject’s life. As if knowing and living by the no eating cake rule, Subject placed me with the replaceable and consequently felt no earth shake underfoot.
As I stood, as I now Know, alone and constantly bracing, Subject was comfortably embracing the new piece for what it was: changeable, replaceable, and something solely in and of itself. The piece… I’m sorry… I mean, I… I was sitting at home. Finally home! Comfort! Ease! Bracing the earthquakes because comfort was in my sight! Ha! What a fool. What an ignorant, naïve little child! As soon as the time came—a time decided still by some phantom of the fate in which I cannot believe—I was ejected. Rejected. And destroyed.
Now, don’t worry. I am not so naïve (anymore) as to think that my life revolved or revolves around love or companionship—it simply seems to be a strong catalyst for all of the other many aspects of my life within which I am also failing and flailing. You see, as it were, I was quite poorly off financially when the Subject entered my life, and Subject was no better. On top of that, my work was unfulfilling and trite, my friendships were all of luke-warm temperatures, and my tax check was rapidly running short. Despite my apparently failing lifestyle, the Subject and I laughed, talked, shared, and watched one another with a curiosity reserved for the most intimate kind of knowing. Days and nights were spent in one another’s company. Stories and time were shared. The little money we did have was shared. Friendships were shared. Space was shared. A companion. A set of eyes across the room in which I found childish comfort… this is what the Subject had become.
So, dear readers, you see this is not me pining on about a broken heart, this is me expressing when I first realized my extreme unhappiness with life. I thought I knew it before, but I did not. I have never had money. My friendships have always been in flux. And my residence always seemed unimportant. In all of these things, I have no experience of the goodness—the comfort—that they can bring. The one category who has so selfishly shown its many forms is the one I have placed before you.
But now what? Jaded is what they call me. Jaded is what I call myself. Embarrassingly jaded by love. Oh why couldn’t I have been jaded by something other than this most ornery category? Why could I have not come into a great fortune and then lost it? Why not have moved to a mansion only to have it destroyed by Zeus and thunder? No, I am left to revel in my own sad, selfish leftovers. Perfectly aware of what life has to offer, but what it so rarely does. And even more painfully aware how quickly these things are taken back. How quickly the cake is placed before us with no chance of satisfaction.
In short, I think what I am saying is that I wouldn’t be pumped about someone stealing my identity, but it might be for sale.