At a Loss

Expression. You feel pent up? You feel fucked? I can't get it out, that thing that is stirring inside with so much intensity that no thoughts, words, or actions are available to give it shape or meaning. I sit. I stare at my screen. I stare at the couples upon couples upon disgustingly sweet couples sipping tea who have managed to find one another in this crazy world. They stare longingly into one another's eyes, no doubt exchanging gooey sweet-nothings...and they actually mean them. They make decisions based on mutual decisions and respect, one wanting so badly to do nothing but respect his or her partner to the fullest. The other being so aware and thankful for the other's presence in his or her life. No one is yelling, blaming, rendered worthless. Neither is made to feel like they're a piece of garbage. I'm pent up.

This excruciating uncertainty of my present state is making me want to write. But I can't. I've got an essay to write; essays to re-write; a short story (still) to complete; writing samples to write; statements of purpose to write. And I can't put a word down on paper. I'm listening to music, to other people's expression. I'm watching movies -- other people's expression. But I feel it in here. I'm angry but I can't be angry at the right thing, the one thing that has triggered this position I'm in. I want to write a fantastic articles in my words that expresses my ideas about this social space in which we live; I want to (if only I could) write slam poetry; I want to write an eloquent memoir. Too young? I haven't done anything interesting enough in my life to warrant a memoir? Perhaps. But I still want to write it. The only thing I can do to express myself is write and it's not happening right now. It's just not there. And I feel angry at the Beatles.

I was in the Tea Lounge tonight, happily listening to Elvis Costello, who was coming over the speakers. Then, all of a sudden, in the middle of a song, it stopped. About this time, I looked over to my right to spot three women, one of whom could not have been over 21. They were sitting at the chess table playing themselves a little game. One of them, the one who annoyed me the most, the one who could not have been over 21, exclaimed "Yeah!" when Elvis stopped. That was obnoxious, but, as we are all allowed to feel what we want about music, I decided I wasn't that annoyed. Ehat would soon change, because Elvis was quickly replaced by the Beatles. Now, I don't have anything against the Beatles, per se, but I don't necessarily like them, either. If I were given a choice between listening to the Beatles and, say, Missy Elliot, over a chicken dinner, I'd probably choose the latter. The Beatles' wagon was something I never climbed aboard. So anyway, I was a little peeved that this is what they replaced Elvis with. And then that song came on. That song about a yellow submarine. That jolly, happy fucking song that makes people bounce in their seats while singing the lyrcis (out loud) came on. I looked over again at the girls, and, sure enough, they were bouncing. Bouncing and singing. Fucking hell. Of course they only bounced during the chorus. So what did I do every time the chorus began? I looked at them. I did this because I hated them so much. It was like driving down the 5 staring at a 10-car pile up hoping to god you don't see a dead body (when, in fact, that's all you want to see). I kept looking over. And I was still mad. Soon, though, they stood up and prepared to leave. I was so happy. The Beatles were still playing, although the nerds hadn't graced the patrons with their voices in a bit. Until "All You Need Is Love" came on. All who needs is love, first of all? Second of all, they started singing. And bobbing their heads back and forth...."all you need is love, love...love is all you need." Oh, that's all I need. Why has it taken me so long to figure it out? Fuck love. Wondering when my next therapy appointment is? Not till Thursday. Days away. After the nerd crew left the lounge, I closed my reader and pulled out my notebook, confident in the fact that I would be able to get started on my next assignment. Should I do a character study or a general culture study or combine the two? I have no idea. And so I sat there: notebook wide open taunting me, pen in hand able only to scratch out the preliminary notes I had scrawled. Nothing. And that's where I am. I'm just happy it's Monday. I can escape into the cozy existence of denial I've staked out for myself, because Monday through Wednesday is nothing but school and work. If I don't think about the girl and how she made me feel, I'm less sad. If I don't allow my mind to revisit the conversations filled with tension and stress and being accused and yelled at, then I can usually go about my day relatively pain-free. If I don't think about the last time we were together, and how nicely confusing it was that we finally managed to communicate and connect, then I can just pretend it never happened. And if I suppress my pain at not having my voicemail and e-mails of three weeks ago returned, then I can really exist in a mildly pleasant space. Naw, it doesn't feel like shit to have been fucked like that. Not at all. Chicks? Done. As am I for the night. Maybe my ability to write will return soon. I can hope.