I’m writing this on a plane returning home from a life-changing music festival. Here I am—dressed in mismatched socks, the same skirt I wore last night, and a flower crown I made—thinking about repetition and how I believe that it’s a form of affection. It's comforting to know that someone cares when you tell them the same thing over and over again, just as they did the first time. I also think the repetition of the same error suggests an unwillingness to alter one's behaviour. Making the same mistake repeatedly is sort of a sign of someone’s refusal to change their ways. I know it's pointless to get upset about things that I can't change, but what if I continue to mess up without trying to fix it or feel guilty? No use crying over spilt milk or whatever, but what if I keep on spilling the milk with no desire to clean it up or feel bad about it? Would that make me less of a good person? I’m too lazy to mop shit. Am I a bad person for wishing that the mess would just disappear?
Speaking of being a bad person, I resent a lot of people, and that's only one example of how terrible I am. I think it’s easy for me to hate people, but it’s so difficult for me to just resent someone. My moral compass is thrown for a loop whenever I let my resentment fester. I can’t just dislike someone and still remember the comfort they provided. That’s impossible and unrealistic; it’s a constant ebb and flow. And I can’t be as cold as I want to be. And I don’t take pride in being a cunt. Would anybody even miss that? The bitchiness, I mean. I’d love to be kind and forgiving, but I also want to be truthful. Being kind is a lot like being deluded. So edgy, “The world is never fair”. I believe it's possible; I just don’t wish for it to be. While it's important to be humble, people also need to be understood.
And I deserve to be despised, even if I don’t like it. I typically tend to ask for things I don’t like, such as forgiveness and resentment. Fighting for a purpose and being challenged will allow you to grow and seek new experiences. But I’m so lazy. I’m selfish. The milk has been spilt; it’s been sitting out there for days. It’s beginning to produce some sort of smell, kinda. I guess I’ll try to clean it up if it doesn’t leave a stain. I’m not sure if I’m ready yet.
Though, a strange ache has been plaguing me in the stillness following your departure; it lies somewhere between missing and resenting, resulting in a complete denial of what happened. I saw you yesterday, but I’ll keep it ambiguous. It's the sort of emotional disarray that makes me question the idea of love and resentment coexisting without one completely shitting on the other.
There was a time when I felt so aligned with you and, dear God, I still do; when our conversations would flow effortlessly like tributaries converging into a shared river of understanding; when I loved you and you knew it every day. I cherished the connection, the feeling of being seen and heard in a world in which the noise I produce is often drowned out. We were friends, mostly. And I miss that the most. And I don’t think anybody quite understands how our bond defied their ideas of a friendship. It was real and it happened and it was everything to me.
But as I sit and lie and toss and turn, I'm confronted by the stark contrast between the warmth of the hours we’d spend together and the unresolved grievances. Every frame of you plays like a jumbled-up supercut. Every memory looks the same, and I’ve seemed to have forgotten. It's the dissonance of feeling both connected and distant, a feeling that hangs so heavy in the air. I miss the person I once knew—the one who’d proofread my essays and get cranky without eating. The familiarity of our camaraderie is etched in my memory of you, and in its absence, there's an undeniable void. But this longing is accompanied by a weighty resentment that stems from the realisation that the very connection I cherished has become a source of disquiet. The pin drops.
I’m conflicted, so deeply conflicted. I liked being your friend; I liked loving you. The very thought of you brings solace and so much reminiscence. I’m in between places, reminiscing the warmth of what was and navigating the frigidity of what has become. You’ve always ignited this conflict in me, and now I’m experiencing it in a million different ways all over again.
The alignment I once felt now seems like a mirage, a temporary convergence of paths that diverged when I least expected. Our connection, which I once found to be profound, now feels distant. If it made a sound, it would be muffled. It's the irony of missing someone while harbouring resentment that colours me conflicted—something that requires careful, delicate steps through our perplexing connection. But I know it was real, and I know it’s real. But it’s conflicting. But I want you. But I really, really don’t. And you want me. But you can’t. And you keep trying, and it’s making me feel bad.
Because when I reflect on us, I grapple with the contradiction of longing for a connection that bears the weight of disappointment. It's as if I'm mourning the loss of what was once the most important thing in my life while being disappointed in what could’ve been. I wake up to a funeral service in my bedroom every day. The thing is, I’m alive, and so are you, but it doesn’t quite feel like it.
