I wake up later than I’ve ever slept in before and realize – I’m done.
I don’t know if I knew it when I wearily dropped into bed, or while I was driving home as the sun was coming up, but as I laid upon my pillow and blinked the hypnagogia from my eyes this morning, I knew I didn’t want this life anymore. I’m ready to wash the cigarette ash from my hair, and be a real woman. I want to see the world. I’m tired of experiencing life through a camera lens, someone else’s written words, or the bottom of a bottle. The repetition of the same things night after night after night, the same haunts, the same chatter, the same disdain and contempt for those like me, for those unlike me, for those who do as I want to do – it’s a rhythm I suddenly don’t wish to dance to anymore.
I am a bleeding heart and also a cold fish.
But I am not impossible to please. To me, everything is possible. Instead of saying “someday” I want to say “today” and I want someone to share it with. I want someone who’s not afraid to keep up. I want to be silly, and sickeningly co-dependent, and storybook fatally, violently in love – and not hide it. Not be embarrassed of it. I’m not asking to shout it from the rooftops, but to wear it on my body and embrace it my walk, to murmur it over canyons and mountaintops and in boats and on airplanes and late at night on the sofa instead of a bar stool. I want to be their goodnight and their good morning, and be the missing piece who sets into motion their hopes and dreams, to be that never-ending conversation they don’t want to walk away from.
I don’t want to want to be like anyone but me.
I am not concerned with pleasing anyone. I won’t compete with anyone. I won’t compete for anyone. I don’t like anything that occupies my mind for too long. I like my thoughts to be free, my dreams to be dangerous, and my footprints to be footloose. The times for numbing emotions and cloaking displeasure are over. The drinks, the flirting, the same meaningless, idle jaw-jacking and burning rubber, and seeking someone through the plumes of smoke to prattle on to just to be heard are over. It’s all just a control technique I’ve taught myself, to feel secure, to feel safe, to feel wanted, to have something to do or someone to talk to – to have a routine and not feel so lost. It’s all just a way to hide dissatisfaction at not being with who I want to be with, not doing the things I want to do, at not being the woman I feel I am, not becoming who I am supposed to become. Instead of writing my own story, I’ve just been collecting empty glasses and empty is what it feels like.