There is something about the environment in which you sleep that says so much about you - so much so that when you invite an outsider in you become worried about what your living space says about you. There is nothing about my being that conveys the way I feel inside. My words are meaningless, my dress sense is non existent. My shallow husk of a face is all that separates the world from my demons - but it shows nothing. I think my face probably portrays a damp squib of a human being. Vacuous, fatuous, and wholly out of step with everything. So that just leaves my room. My fetid den of corruption and low self-esteem. It's rotten, but I get by. The moment though, when you realise that someone you quite like wants to 'come back to yours' - the fear sets in. The hearts sticks in the throat as you can't remember what vulgarities you left lying around - what gruesome artifacts are strewn on the Omaha Beach that is your floor. You cannot even see the floor. 'Oh no' you think 'he might see the awful remnants of last season's summer collection scattered across my tabletop'.
But really - it doesn't matter. The damage has been done. You are who you are. No more you. I am what I am, and that's that. I apologise profusely for everything wrong with my flat - even having cleaned it only an hour or so ago.
Every word I say feels laboured, every glance of the eye is scrutinised as I wonder whether or not I am successfully holding his attention. I imagine I am not, at every second. I hear the words tumbling out - banal, cliché words. I create silences, I cannot fill them. It is only when I try to put my supposed 'interesting-ness' to use that I realise it is a spook, a phantom. It does not exist. A cunning ruse my mind played on me to give me some small feeling of self-worth. Like a child told all his life he is intelligent, sharp, and will go far, who fails to pass his exams; the comedown is brutal, and sharp. I realise I have nothing to say. All my opinions are too stark in contrast to his personality that it would be like shooting him in the face, and I wouldn't, I couldn't.
I cannot even tell if he likes me. One presumes he must - he is in my bed, accepting my monstrous body, willing to intrude, with some coercion. Are older men that sexually repressed? I feel like a horny teenager - aren't the beginnings of relationships supposed to be filled with insatiable sexual hunger, lust for the ages that dies down late and in the autumn. Perhaps he has not accepted my monstrous body at allg. Perhaps it is a ruse of his own. A gentle hoax, allowing my lips to wander while he awaits the train - pre-booked. Pre-booked trains are a nightmare for the neurotic. Does he want to stay longer, but cannot, for the train is booked - or does he desperately want to leave, but cannot, for the train is booked. I cannot tell whether anyone likes me anymore. I have lost all eye for subtlety. I don't get his jokes. I laugh anyway. I don't make jokes, and he doesn't laugh.
I worry I might be doomed to not like anyone ever again. I think because I assume he does not like me - that means I cannot possibly like him. Even though I think he's sexy, and smells nice. And cooks me breakfast. I am so fucked up.
No comments:
Post a Comment