A Deep Indigo
by R. Skotarczyk
Grey. Have you seen it outside? This cookie is too salty. The coffee is too weak. There’s a vent blowing cool air from ground up into my eye that seems to like to water continuously for any and every reason.
Last night was fun, yeah, it was, until that bump. What an awkward moment in the stall snorting up chemical powder. Ex-boyfriends and old habits. That’s what yesterday was. That’s been this whole month of April, come to think of it. I tell myself it’s karmic, there’s something I haven’t learned yet.
There’s a group of European jazz musicians staying in the Airbnb on the opposite side of the duplex I live. They were practicing scales all morning, smoking cigarettes on the porch. My roommate said they were gorgeous and that we should try to hang with them later. I’m avoiding this issue by being anti-social, by going out to a public place and writing. Public places are more acceptable places to practice anti-social tendencies.
It wasn’t the cocaine. It wasn’t the fact that that one dude who hits me up on occasion showed up later in the evening, locked eyes with me but never said, hi. It wasn’t the fact that the only one who seemed to appreciate how well put together I was, how intently I danced, was the most drunk dude in the club. I kept him steady though, you know? He watched my movements and I kept his gaze up. I was useful, I had use. It wasn’t all those things, but then… it was. It was the expectations I told myself not to have that maybe that night things would change, something would change, someone new would walk into my life, grab me like they’d been searching for their yin forever and ever and here I was, ready to fit with their soul, merge, sink in, never coming up for air. I told myself this wouldn’t happen, but my soul still wished it. Dumb ass hope. Hope keeps us unsatisfied, keeps us ignoring what’s happening in the moment. Hope is only a sign that you think your life sucks as is. That is not a good way to be.
I told myself over and over “the path is the goal”- chanted it while I danced because no one cared what I mumbled to myself, no one knew how with every movement of this muscle, this arm, this foot, I performed as strongly as I could, I danced with purpose, to ward off some sort of feeling that was trying to eat me, steal my pleasure.
I’m supposed to be learning how to live without a bottom, bottomless; no one to lean on, no one to tell me it’s all going to be OK. I’m supposed to be learning how to live in discomfort. Why is this a thing I need to learn to do?
No one sees me. No one is looking for me. I am not looking for them either, OK, I was. But I give up. Last night I gave up. Before I snuck out the door I did tell one person I was leaving. “I feel like I need to leave,” I said. “Why?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “You have anxiety or something?” he asked. “Yes, always,” I told him. “You do what you feel you need to,” he said. It wasn’t an interaction that needed to happen. I could have just ghosted, but I suppose I wanted at least one person to see me. See? Here I am. Here are my thoughts, respond to them. Pretend to care, please, even if you don’t.
I set my little sack down one more time before I left as if hoping the one I was waiting for would waltz in right then, one last chance. But nah… no one came. Why didn’t that dude just say, hi? Would that have saved the night? Whatever. Fuck Geminis anyway.
Can I get back to how grey this day is? How I’m happy I’m writing and out in public, but I still feel like crying. Some random acquaintance messaged me last night to ask about another ex-boyfriend. Said a good friend of his was thinking of dating this person and might I have any thoughts on the guy. “Wouldn’t recommend him to anyone,” I said, listing a few reasons. They felt like true reasons and I believe I might have saved a girl’s heart. The acquaintance thanked me. Said that he was so glad he reached out. I believe his gut already knew my ex was going to be trouble for his friend. Satisfied with that small act of vengeance, I lay on my bed, having just biked home in the rain. The cocaine made my brain hurt, my head pounded. I just lay there like dead weight while my other roommate and his girl brushed their teeth in the mirror and hummed softly with love. Two rooms away, I am death. Here I am. See, we live with dualism everywhere.
Is it the gut rot, the cocaine blues, the coffee, the cool air still blowing, the sad music coming through my headphones, the feeling of being and not being at all? – invisible. I think that’s what it’s called. I feel invisible, but I’m not. My roommate sees me. She’s always pulling me out of myself, but I’m tired. Today I either want to die or move to the country, which is the same thing to some. What’s that? You want to tell me I need therapy, too? Heard it all before and nah, I don’t want to die. That’s silly. But I thought it- envisioned the ways it could be done. I do this often, too often, but it’s a harmless practice, really. After sifting through all the ways, inevitably I decide that they all would suck and that usually motivates me to get up. So. Here I am, up. What happens now? I feel like I’ve exhausted my options for the day.
Yeah, my roommate is good at pulling me out, but I don’t want to go out tonight. I’m not in the mood for guys, for flirting. No. I’m tired of dressing up with expectations. Maybe I should install a mood meter on the outside of my door. Today’s reading would be, a deep indigo.