14.05.17 The Next Morning
It's Saturday night and I'm sitting in my apartment. On the table next to my laptop is a bottle of wine, and a small bouquet of tulips, bought at Lidl. The tulips are now resting in a glass of water.
In the picture you can see me wearing a shiny top. I bought it to wear at parties a few years ago but haven't worn it until now.
I had trouble finding the location of the party tonight. In fact, though, I have just returned from it. On my search for the party I finally found the corresponding palatial complex and rang the bell. A voice answered, and I became stressed, with my masculine voice going quiet. 'What? Hello?' went the unfamiliar voice, it's not the girl I was expecting.
I said the girl's name, the one having the housewarming party, while I kept my utterances to a minimum. The voice at the other end gave me a code to get through a second door.
The code wouldn't work.
I buzzed again. A different voice, still unfamiliar. I said the girl's name again. A code was shouted, the exchange over once more. I tried the code, and failed again.
'Oh for fuck's sake,' they might say, if I tried the buzzer a third time, telling them it didn't work for me. 'Who the fuck is this person?' they would say. The one with the masculine voice.
I'm not writing this for sympathy; I am conscious of a self-pity that feels unmistakably adolescent. But at that elegant door this evening, something inside me said, 'enough.' In the streets around me, pissed rugby fans staggered by and all I wanted to do was go home. And to write. And to put the flowers somewhere. Perhaps drink some of the wine as well.
I said I wouldn't drink alcohol alone in my apartment.
It's already nearly eleven pm and here I am, in my shiny top, flowers at my elbow, laptop switched on. A selfie for posterity, so you can see just what I look like, what the party would have seen, if I'd entered it. In my picture, you'll notice the radiator to my right, the one I sit against for warmth in winter though it's not too cold tonight. Tonight, I'm at the table, writing, with a glass of Chilean wine at my side, and I miss my Chilean friend Yesenia who returned home last December to Valdivia. And now there are tears in my eyes, though soon I will go to bed.
The next morning
I wake up and feel strong, or at least, unemotional. It's just after seven and the sunlight is bright and I am okay. I can see life is not linear, not emotionally, the sadness I felt yesterday is no longer there. Now on this Sunday morning, I am pragmatically cold, more like a machine than I realized. Eventually I get up and do exercises. I have breakfast and get ready and leave this cold apartment, thinking everything feels different. We are more like machines than we realize, emotionally we're not the people we were yesterday. Whatever we feel on a particular day, joy, sadness, melancholy, anger, tomorrow is always another day, different, and so are we.