Trolley and I went to get some paint chips. It wasn’t too long since my last session before we left. In the store I was surrounded by colour, a pedestal of floating gradients.
We move in a little over a month. I think I’ll do my room in a dark blue, and two walls of the living room in light beige. Trolley’s thinking either light grey or deep red for his.
Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I’ve been really moody lately. Extremely moody. Almost on an emotional level.
Another post-breakup phase. I go through this for a few months after breaking up with someone, but it only started to hit me recently. Funny how I’ve only now had enough relationships to actually realize this. I look at my monthly archives from the beginning of the blog and most of them begin with some emotional, confused line. In fact, this entire blog started as a way to vent these post break-up thoughts and feelings, until it became something more than that. Now I’m falling back into that trap. I’m starting to do stupid shit again, things I wish I didn’t do, afterwards.
Every day, in my head, I plan out my entries for the next week. Yet, every time I sit down to type, I’m never in the mood to write. It’s just the same shit, over and over again.
The difference is that this time I know what to do. I’ve been looking for too much meaning in too little.
I want to get out. For the first time in my life, I’m sick of this winter. I want to sit in the sun. I want to be amongst others.
I want to lay on the track, feel hot steel screaming at me
Expose the bones on my back, let me show you what I mean.
Ugh. I feel tainted. Moody. It feels like no one likes me. For the first time in a very long time, I feel alone.
I just started three different entries, but didn’t finish any of them. I’m not even in the mood to write this. I’m just sitting here with the lights out, two Candellas perched on top of my desk, and the first volume of Buddha Bar resounding in the room. My head is numb, my throat dry, my cat uninterested.
This has become so bland. The same things over and over again. Where did my humour go? When did things stop changing? Maybe I need a break from this.
Tomorrow, I’ll finish this tomorrow. This is just a mood. I’ll explain when I’m not as tired. I’ll go to bed with this music on, dreaming of quaint European architecture and parties I could host to this sound.
Maybe I’ll feel better when I hit, “Publish”.
A couple emerged from two heavy doors at the National Arts Centre (Human Resources entrance) as I was on the 95 today, passing down the Mackenzie King Bridge. One was a woman, very slender, who looked as if she was in her early thirties but was probably in her late thirties. The man was what someone would consider an appropriate match, being slightly taller than her, and dressed in the same half-casual jeans-with-overcoat style.
For a moment, they stood outside the doors, appropriately adorning their shuffled coats and scarves according to the late winter weather. They looked as if they had emerged from the resolution of an emotional fight, or some very guilty sex in a broom closet.
Their first steps were almost languid, but I could tell that it wasn’t a physical exhaustion. They were pacing each other out, waiting for the other person to talk first, and their footsteps were how they subconsciously spoke to each other. It was as if they both knew that they had done something wrong. Whether it was intentional or not was unclear, but it was certain that neither person was more at fault than the other.
They continued walking together, westbound, with that slight distance between them that’s reserved for couples who are either trying to hide their physical longing for the other or trying to express their angry emotions. I could tell that the silence was comfortable, as neither of them spoke, because there weren’t any right words to be said at that moment.
I watched them in fascination as they continued down the street with their hands in their own pockets. Each of them understood exactly what the other was thinking, but were hesitant to say anything before knowing how the other felt first. When they spoke next, it would be in one-word sentences. Their faces showed how much they had been through together, and how much was at risk at that very moment.
But it was how their silence spoke volumes of how well they knew each other that made me wonder if I would ever feel the same.
Last morning, the sky was a swirl of ash and dusty pink. The air was still, the breeze was warm, and everything felt different. It was as if we lived in a snowglobe wrapped in tie-dyed tissue paper, travelling on our way to work, watching the early morning sunlight come up with the waning of the winter days. The rays would pierce the clouds like a child passing a flashlight through the thin spots in his blanket.
I can only hope for the same today.