I�m packing up my little life here, and just as I would hope, it does not easily fit into cardboard boxes.
There�s something to be gained in this process, examining each piece of trash you�ve collected in the last year, sorting and cataloging all these little articles of personal history that presented themselves on the journey, or lack thereof. All the odd shaped bits that don�t intermingle, all the tiny pieces of paper that collect in weight like a ton of bricks. Books and photos, cross-referenced to some memory that fears it�s own demise.
I can�t quite figure out which weighs more.
You hold onto a scribbled scrap of paper bearing the phone number of some girl, given to you on a drunken night at the Brooklyn Brewery. Stuffed in the back of a drawer, waiting for some sentimental morning when it might be dragged out and presented as evidence of appreciation. Remember when you gave me this? Doesn�t it impress you to know that I held onto it for this long? Doesn�t that make you love me more?
We all have needs, but some of us hide them in the back of drawers.
A photo magazine, still wrapped in the shipping envelope...part of the dying end of a girlfriend�s birthday-gift subscription. A periodical reminder of the person that didn�t want you, delivered for months after she rejected you.
It stays in the envelope so that there may be a constant barrier between her good faith and my angry heart. Instead of throwing it away, I keep it in a drawer so that I might occasionally happen upon it and dream of her for an hour. Or a day...or a week.
I have three more at home, all wrapped in their shipping envelopes, eagerly awaiting my examination. In truth, it was the one of the best gifts anyone has ever given me, and if I allowed myself to enjoy her thoughtfulness, it might temper the anger that I�m trying so hard to hold onto.
I punish myself because I know she couldn�t care less anymore, and I�d rather feel my self-imposed torture then realize her complete absence of emotion towards me. I know that someday I�ll open them and drool over every monochromatic masterpiece contained within, but my life is composed of a million someday�s.
"someday you�ll get justice, someday you�ll be �the one� but someday�s not tomorrow because someday never comes"
A distant cousin claimed to have access to a rent-controlled sublet in Manhattan. After a small amount of hope and legwork, the apartment evaporated, leaving me back where I started.
I�ll be collecting my U-Haul today at noon. After that, it�s only a matter of packing up my life and cleaning out this house.
I had a second-round job interview yesterday. I felt positive, I glowed, I charmed. They told me they�d call me by the end of the day.
They never called.
My mother called early this morning and her voice trembled. It�s a fluttering voice that I know quite well.
