I met my boyfriend for lunch today. Our relationship hasn't been doing the greatest lately and as usual this is in direct relation to my own mood swings. When I am happy, we are perfect for each other; I become completely carefree and puerile in his presence and he consumes my aura, finding in it the pleasure he otherwise finds life devoid of. These moments are precious, but all too rare. More commonly, he endures my fits of mournful detachment. He comforts me, stays with me, listens to me, but he doesn't understand. Whenever I break down and lose my composure he asks me what's wrong, what can he do to help me, looking for some specific trigger and an even more specific solution. The rare times I do muster up discernible responses, they seem cryptic and vague to him. I can feel a silent panic within him as he realizes he'll never be able to help me. He knows I know this, but I make no offer of solace.
So we sat across the table from on another as usual: he with nothing to say and me in charge of carrying the conversation. But I was not there. My eyes were fixated on the row of tiles encircling the bottom of a nearby support beam. What color were they supposed to be? Why would only one row be carried from the flooring to the bottom of the beam? Why not more or none at all?
At work this morning I was stricken with the urge to start bawling and shivering, yet nothing was happening, no one was moving, everyone was just going about their routines. Something just felt so unnatural about it all. The smiles seemed lost. The laughter sounded like chocking. The fabric covering the cubicle walls seemed like it was merely there to mask the underlying prison-like bars. But it's not just at work anymore; I see it everywhere now. Everything seems so artificial and what scares me the most is the disguised desperation in their faces, an urgency for something I can't discern. If I close my eyes, stand still and breathe in deeply, out slowly, and open my eyes, if I remove all the knick-knacks, all the furniture, all the walls, I can see nothing but shadowy figures moving at alarming speeds but in the most chaotic patterns. Where are they going? Quiescent, I stand surrounded and want nothing more than to remove myself completely from this spectacle. But how does one excuse herself from such a stage? I'm terrified to take even the smallest of steps as if I could be trampled to death by their disorder.
After I broke my concentration on the beam tiles, I finally looked over towards him and began relaying these thoughts aloud. I don't know why. I keep thinking that if I say them enough times, he'll begin to understand, but every time the tacit response is the same: pity. However it's not a condescending pity, but rather almost a self-pity, as if he knows that this will always keep us separated from one another. The feeling is mutual and always unspoken.
So we sat across the table from on another as usual: he with nothing to say and me in charge of carrying the conversation. But I was not there. My eyes were fixated on the row of tiles encircling the bottom of a nearby support beam. What color were they supposed to be? Why would only one row be carried from the flooring to the bottom of the beam? Why not more or none at all?
At work this morning I was stricken with the urge to start bawling and shivering, yet nothing was happening, no one was moving, everyone was just going about their routines. Something just felt so unnatural about it all. The smiles seemed lost. The laughter sounded like chocking. The fabric covering the cubicle walls seemed like it was merely there to mask the underlying prison-like bars. But it's not just at work anymore; I see it everywhere now. Everything seems so artificial and what scares me the most is the disguised desperation in their faces, an urgency for something I can't discern. If I close my eyes, stand still and breathe in deeply, out slowly, and open my eyes, if I remove all the knick-knacks, all the furniture, all the walls, I can see nothing but shadowy figures moving at alarming speeds but in the most chaotic patterns. Where are they going? Quiescent, I stand surrounded and want nothing more than to remove myself completely from this spectacle. But how does one excuse herself from such a stage? I'm terrified to take even the smallest of steps as if I could be trampled to death by their disorder.
After I broke my concentration on the beam tiles, I finally looked over towards him and began relaying these thoughts aloud. I don't know why. I keep thinking that if I say them enough times, he'll begin to understand, but every time the tacit response is the same: pity. However it's not a condescending pity, but rather almost a self-pity, as if he knows that this will always keep us separated from one another. The feeling is mutual and always unspoken.
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