I experienced something last night. I slept with somebody for the first time, but I felt nothing except burning calories.
They say that sex is one of life's greatest experiences, but I felt nothing for this person. I felt loathing afterwards as they got dressed and rushed me out of the door.
They weren't mad or disappointed, they just didn't want their kids to see somebody new and expect them to fill the void of their missing parent.
After that experience I went home and I drank myself to sleep. However, for the first time, I didn't feel happy after I got drunk.
My senses were dulled, the negative voices in my head faded, but I simply felt hollow. The next morning I wasn't even hungover, despite how many drinks I had.
My cinnamon oatmeal tasted bland, my morning coffee only increased my heart rate. It was as if something died with me that night.
My moment of release was when I realized that I wanted somebody to hold, somebody to call my own. Not like last night, no, but something permanent.
When I looked at the children's backpacks hung on partner's coat rack last night, I longed for something. Somebody to love me for who I was. Somebody who would be there for me. And a child who I could groom to make sure they never had to go through the hardships that I had to as a kid.
Once the morning came, however, I realized that it was never meant to be. I'm destined to be alone. Too awkward to find a spouse, too scared to get out of my comfort-zone. How is it that everybody in my lineage managed to find somebody? Is it a changing of the times? Is it social media? The internet? No, no, it's just me.
Only able to express thoughts to myself, choking on my words when I speak to others, or divulging so much that they run from me.
It's my curse. Even painting my sorrow fills me with negativity, not like the catharsis I had last weekend when I painted the landscape out my window.
"This line's too crooked," I thought to myself. "That shade doesn't meld together," I said as I desperately patted my brush onto my pastel.
I finally gave up and tore the painting to shreds as if I were Dorian Grey.
Then I accidentally sliced my finger on a rusted corner of my aisle. The crimson blood dripped from my finger and stained my wet navy blue disgrace of a painting.
The colors melded and it looked strangely beautiful. I squeezed on my finger and pressed out the blood like a tube of paint, but of course barely any blood came out.
It was barely a cut after all. Then I grabbed my letter opener and put it to my finger.
I felt a beating in my chest, my arms began to sweat, and my hands perspired so much that the letter opener slipped from my hands.
Then, I stopped. I realized that... I actually felt something. I felt fear. The bitter taste of adrenaline in my mouth. "Is this what I've become?" I whispered to myself. I took the beautiful paint, which looked as if the forest in my backyard had caught fire, and tossed it in the trash. "I never want to see that side of myself again." I thought to myself.
I picked up the letter opener and I threw it away too. I threw away my clothes from last night, just as I had thrown away my dignity and I lied on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
It was barely morning, but I decided to sleep. "I don't want to be conscious right now." I thought to myself. "I don't want to bear the burden of thought. Maybe someday when I'm stronger, but not today." I thought to myself as I closed my eyes, wishing to drift off to sleep.