I start by saying, I don't feel sorry for myself. And I don't feel sorry for you.

I feel sorry that I can't reconcile this. That I can come to terms with almost everything in my life except for this. I can reunite with everyone else, I can think, with a clear head about my next steps, about my hopes and my desires. That I can make friends and keep them. That I can try something different and that I can be alone.

But I cannot close this. I cannot speak to anyone the same way, feel comfortable with anyone else the same way. I cannot stop thinking about it, and cannot understand why it was the only thing that made me feel real, and outside of myself. That besides then, I have not once in my life felt unselfishly sad. A type of sad that has yet to exist inside of me again, one that hit me so deeply inside of my heart that it could not escape me. Instead it sat in the pit of my stomach replacing food, replacing reality. My literal hunger was replaced with a driven, sad calm.

There are many things to be said.

the massage

Someone often told me, "if it works, its obsolete".

Few wise words have be drilled into me as much as those McLuhans, and they come to mind at this moment as I feel so utterly out of whack, so out of touch with all of the things that I'm feeling. I realize that I have chosen to be borderline content. To forgo wracking my brain to get to the root of it, choosing instead to blissfully huff along. I have taken to distracting myself with shiny objects, home projects and planned trips out of this repetitive city.

There are interesting new people, there are places to go, and maps to route out, but I feel no desire to experience them. I'd rather sit with my semi-sibs watching food network til 4am salivating over the corn paella and sea urchin flan than hit up that same-ole party. I might like that bartender, but I'll just wave as I walk up to my apartment while he tries to mouth something to me through the window.

I'm more content with being alone again. Sometimes it's almost too much effort to invest in these places and these restaurants and these jobs. My apartment never says the wrong thing or bugs me; the streets of downtown never get tired or stump me with awkward silence, and my own company rarely causes me anxiety.

Alas, I also realize that my apartment doesn't make me laugh, and the streets of downtown certainly do not teach me about mind control or space conspiracy and will not be around to try to figure out vanilla sky with me.

I need the contact again. Not the live-in contact which eventually did become obsolete, but I need the friendship, the companionship, and the person to fucking talk it out with. I want it back.