Monday, January 26, 2015

Toast and tomato and pastrami and a fried egg for breakfast.

I eat to the sound of the McElroy brothers.

Old episodes.

They remind me...

They remind me of sipping Jameson.

Of her hand unbuttoning my shirt.

Her tenuous grasping at my zipper.

Of my semi-restrained reciprocation—my passivity.

Waiting for her to make the mistake.

The brothers joke about sneaking a kitten through airport security.

I laugh at the computer on the side table.

She smiles at me, startled by the rarity of the sound.

Her hands return to my chest, the tension gone from her fingers.

Not tonight.

Not yet.

I wake up next to her at 6:12 AM.

I am going to be late for an appointment.

Two tomato slices left on my plate.

I finish my breakfast and sit on my porch and read a good book for four years.

Sunday, January 25, 2015

Step 1: Feel entirely hollow.

Step 2: Load up on anti-depressants and stimulants.

Step 3: Feel entirely hollow, but get the work done.

Thursday, January 15, 2015

Eating at an old favorite restaurant.

Grey skies through the windows.

Beer with lunch.

The glass is heavy in my hand.

Cold against my lips.

She is leaving at the end of the month.

She is leaving and she is taking our life with her.

I have so much work to do.

So many expectations to meet.

So many commitments to fulfill.

The glass is heavy in my hand.

I think about putting new fluid in my lighter.

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Sitting in a coffee shop with nothing but this pen and my journal.

It's been a while since I just sat down and took some time to unplug.

I need to do it more often.

I need to get back to my writing.

Back to the habit.

Back to the inebriation.

Back to the coffee and the time alone and the introspection.

It feels good to be home with my family.

To be away from her and the ruins of our life together.

Away from all the lost potential.

Away from the tension and the shame.

A table of men to my left discusses the merits and technicalities of baptism.

I often forget how little I belong in this town.

It feels natural to come back; I know this place well.

But I could not be further from the average demographic.

And yet...I feel oddly at peace here—soothed somehow by the familiarity of it all.

Perhaps it is a matter of perspective.

Coming home helps me remember the magnitude of my accomplishment.

When I am there, surrounded by my peers and colleagues, it is difficult to feel special.

And that is good.

The quickest way to destroy a scientist is to coddle him into a sense of superiority.

But coming home helps me really think about what I have done.

It helps me remember how hard I have worked.

How much I have risked.

How many sacrifices I have made in the pursuit of a life that has the capacity to make a difference.

I have really turned myself into something.

I don't need to be constantly reminded of that.

But sometimes it is nice to see it in context.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

The most difficult part is trying to convince myself that I don't care.

That I have done my best and that I deserve to let go and that I just don't care what she does anymore.

That I don't care whether she tells me the truth or not.

That I will be okay as long as I can just bury myself in my research.

That this anguish does not infect my every thought.

I can't focus.

For weeks now.

Even the best distractions are unusually short-lived.

I can't do my work.

I can't read.

I can't pay attention to my video games.

God damn it, I don't even want to cook anymore.

I can't get it out of my head.

Every time I see her.

Every time I hear her voice.

Every time she touches me.

The thought of her with him.

Of all of the ways that they have shared each other.

It tears away at me like shards of fiberglass suspended in my bloodstream.

Sunday, January 4, 2015

I can't even look at her anymore.

I can't look at her without thinking about how she spends her weekends.

Everything that she does with him.

How little I mattered to her when faced with an opportunity to live a life of unbridled hedonism.

We don't talk anymore.

Only to ask each other purely logistical questions about our living situation.

I can no longer hide my anger.

And she can't bear to look at what she has done.

So she doesn't.

She closes herself off—sequestered away in her new world of sex and fantasy and immediate gratification.

She ignores me.

The way that she has ignored all of my concerns and needs for the past four months.

She enjoys herself.

She enjoys herself while I sit trapped in our apartment, staring at everything that we used to have while our cat sleeps soundly in my lap.

Friday, January 2, 2015

It has been quite some time.

Quite some time since she visited my dreams.

But since then, I keep having the same familiar flashes of sensation.

Memories of her.

A touch.

Her fascinating intonation.

The smell of her clothing.

The taste of Irish whiskey.

The character of her smile.

Her face, contorted with pleasure.

Half-filled wine glasses left abandoned on the nightstand.

I know that my memories are only half true.

Worn down by time like so many stones in some turbulent river.

But they are no less my memories.

My construction of her.

And what she was to me.

I miss...

I just wish that the timing had been better.