i love you just don't love me back
Part 1
Go to Lake Como, they say, it’s definitely worth it! So I go since I’m already in Milan and I suppose the fully packed train I’m standing in should have been an indication, but there’s a queue for absolutely everything. I hate queues and I hate Italy but I figured a weekday in the winter would be chill. That must be why I’m screaming at my ex in the plazas, telling anyone who dares “shush” me to fuck off. This night will be pivotal in our break up. Words will be slung, tears will be shed, truths will be admitted. I will cry in front of my ex many times and he will say it’s because I’m empathetic. He is filled with the grief of regret, of heartbreak. Do you also travel throughout Europe with your ex partners, ANTIREADER? Yesterday, I received an essay about grief straight to my inbox. rayne fisher-quann writes, “I have felt so much grief at the end of so much love that all of my love has started to feel like the beginning of grief.” And I’m shocked that someone has just articulated the way in which people begin relationships with me— preparing for my inevitable departure. Unfortunately, we’re never as prepared as we hope.
Some of the saddest times in my life have been felt in some the most beautiful places in the world. My visit to Lake Como is no different. At 5:30 AM I worry that I will hurt everyone who ever loves me. I tried staying, I really did. I want to build, I really do. Part of me believes I have always been broken, but why try and escape who you really are?
Part 2
I’m not sure what the date is. It’s a Monday afternoon. I am not at work. I am in Madrid but will be in Lugo late tonight. The trip will be unusually quick. The driver of the Mercedes I’m riding in will tell me that his family owns the supermarket in front of my house. No one at work knows where I am and it won’t even matter. But I don’t know any of this yet. What I do know is that my stolen phone is sitting in a flat, not so far away, in Lavapies waiting to be sold to the highest bidder. I will not be that bidder. And though it’s caused me more than one headache the last couple of days, I feel relief. Like some great weight has been lifted off my creaky, tense shoulders with nothing to impulsively check nor deliberately handle. Everything I was “supposed” to do can no longer be done and I wonder how we got to this place in the world. This place where your entire life is somehow on your phone and when it’s gone people panic and find it perfectly acceptable to ring the alarm or throw a fit or sulk. I have been told, on more than one occasion of having my phone stolen, that my calmness is stressing them out. Maybe it would soothe them to know just how much I fucking hate phones. Someone tells me a lavender iPhone, exactly like mine, was listed on Wallapop 15 minutes ago. The storage was full, anyway. By now I assume all the memories have been wiped clean.
It sure was fun though- blissfully dancing in an outfit that closely resembles Kim Possible, not knowing that no one is actually able to call me beep me if they wanna reach me. One of my favorite shirts has a giant orange stain from the first bite of the spicy Chinese noodle soup from an old stomping ground that I had a few hours prior. I’m standing on a staircase in Cafe la Palma dancing like a maniac, thinking it’s hilarious that of all the employees walking up and down these stairs no one has told me to get the fuck out of the way. For someone so ridiculously messy, I am quite good at making myself small. It helps that I am physically small, I guess. I love Madrid and I get swept away in all she has to offer. In all she asks of you. Having my phone stolen doesn’t even anger me, it just feels nostalgic. I have an urge to take a picture of a scene but I can’t. I laugh quietly to myself. The boisterous sound of a jackhammer from the construction across the street clamours on, demanding attention loudly and consistently. The flat is street level and everything sounds like it’s happening inside of the room you are in. The chaos of metal stabbing concrete until it breaks to bits feels like a hum in my body. I rest my head on a linen pillow and drift softly to sleep.
This feels like just another journal entry of descriptions. Writing has been so hard for me these last two months. I think too much Life has been happening. It takes a while to process. I don’t feel like processing. I don’t feel like writing. I cannot live and process at the same time. Sometimes you just gotta live!!! I hope you bear with me, ANTIREADER.
i love you, just don’t love me back!!! i hear it hurts.