12122020

I feel like each day, I’m just drifting in and out of existence, slipping through and in between the pores of my memories. An old friend – well, maybe not even a friend, just someone who talked to me for a very brief moment a long time ago – reached out to me earlier tonight, on Tinder of all places. I wish I hadn’t talked to her. My heart’s become twisted with a wretched longing for a past that I’m deliberately misremembering. That horrible, wrenching fondness for people who are no longer here, who might as well not even exist anymore. I wonder if I were to go back and sift through the detritus of my life, if I could find the exact moment, that precise point at which a hairline fracture appeared and bloomed so quickly into this bitter, rotten metastasis. It’d do no use at this point except to confirm my paranoia. When I was young people told me all the time that I could be someone someday, that they were excited to see who I would become in the future. I let them all down, and most importantly, I, who believed in all those stupid things people said, let myself down. Not only did I not become someone, I became less than no one.