Wednesday, March 23

Discount on Rose-Coloured Glasses

IF ONLY MY sadness had wings then it could carry me somewhere better, somewhere more interesting, perhaps somewhere with a view or a vending machine. As it happens, my sadness has no wings. This is a particular bad patch. This length of time is a test, or something or other. I should like to see the back of it. Each night is the same: I come home rather positive, then it descends into crippling sadness, depression, longing, and the night is bleak. I go to bed early just to get away from it, as if I am a robber and the day is a cop. The spring-air comes through my window, lightly perfumed and the sound of birds. Why do birds sing into the night? to taunt me?
There is an unfinished poem sitting on my desk for over a week now. I was writing it last Tuesday-week when my youngest brother unexpectedly showed up after a delay on the trains prevented him returning home. ‘You don’t mind?’ he kept asking. I told him I did not. We stayed up late; I was drinking and he was getting high. We watched comedies. That weekend my mother said—‘So E—t stayed with you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How was that?’
‘It was okay,’ I said—‘I was having a bad night, so the distraction was welcome.’
She said—‘Why such a bad night?’
‘Uh… It was a year since L—a broke up with me.’
‘O dear,’ she said—‘You’re still hung up on that?’
‘Of course I am! I still miss her and that. She was my best friend.’ I was tired.
My father chipped in—‘Don’t you remember—’
‘Yes, yes,’ I interrupted, anticipating his comment—‘I remember how miserable I was.’ He had said it a hundred times.
Exactly! You forget how fucking miserable she made you.’
‘I know, but I’m fucking stupid. I know all that shit, but I still miss her. I look at that shit through rose-coloured glasses, I know that, so save your breath.’
I was halfway through the poem when he arrived so that I had to hide it upon his entry into my living room. When I finally got to return to the poem the following night I was devoid of words, dull to the feeling that had so swamped me the evening previous; not that I did not feel it, but as though I had become dumb or tongue-tied. I cursed my silence. Still, the poem sits here on my desk, unfinished.
On Sunday I cleaned my flat, properly, spending a few hours going over it with a duster, a hoover, a mop. There was a small puddle of dried come on the floor from where an overenthusiastic orgasm missed its target. On Thursday night I ended that, too—‘So you don’t wanna fuck me anymore?’ I told her I did not. ‘Well, I dunno what to say,’ she said. I told her that was okay by me and that I would take my leave. She told me she wanted me to fuck her. I told her I did not. I enjoyed my walk home alone. A great many things seem pointless to me these days.
Here I am, yet another night down. Yes, I did return from work in a most positive mood (I had received some very good news) and desperate to achieve something. How quickly my mood deteriorated! I drink and drink until I feel sick. I watch the homeless people going past my window looking for somewhere to sleep; they get angry and kick their dog that yelps into the night. Men and women come and rifle through the bins, looking for scraps of metal or anything valuable and unwanted. I watch them all. I am rotting in this city. My mind becomes scrap. My heart wilts. I drink and drink until I feel sick, then I go to bed. In the morning the drink does not seem so appealing but by the time evening comes around I buy more. I don’t know what is happening to me, but spring is here, the sun is returning and I am sure that things will get better. They have to get better. Please, things, get better.

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