Perhaps, then, the truth isn't so much that I'm lazy; rather, it's that I'm a coward. I avoid things - challenges, to be precise. Challenges that require a modicum of mental strength, that put me in situations with which I am unfamiliar, which expose me to the horrid stink of failure. I like failing as much as I like losing (which is not one bit) and I would rather not try at all than to have tried and failed.
Life is terribly exhausting. Then again, I suppose this is a more accurate way to put it: I find life terribly exhausting. I am tired of wandering around the streets of London at the end of the beginning of the dead of the winter, feeling terribly lost, flailing about, not knowing what I'm doing or where I'm going. The lack of certainty, the absence of success, my inability to handle setbacks in a productive manner (which, in my opinion, is an unfortunate offspring of my negative disposition) - I am tired. I don't want to care anymore. But if I don't care, what will I do? I don't want to think about it; but if I don't think about it, what will I do? I am tired of trying; tired of avoiding the worst possible outcome; tired of feeling stressed out about doing nothing and having no motivation to do something.
Above all else, I am tired of being myself.
I don't know what I want. I didn't like it when Arnaud was around all the time; now that he's not around all the time, I wish he'd be around me more. A classic hallmark of being a woman: not knowing what the fuck you want.
I don't even know what to tell him. I don't know how to explain what it does to me when half the day has passed and I don't hear from him; I don't know how to explain why it matters. I don't know how to start talking about this without severely contradicting what I told him when I asked him to move out - that I'm independent; that I didn't want to be around him all the time; that I needed my own space. Now that I have space, I feel like a clingy rag doll and I don't know why.
It was this feeling of unsettledness that led me to meet him this afternoon, even as I didn't particularly feel like going out because I am nursing the beginning of a cold. I picked a cafe off Baker Street which turned out to be suitably cosy and relatively quiet. He was his usual affectionate self (though he bordered on extremely inappropriate PDA today) and I was sad and happy at the same time. I told him that I felt like he didn't call me enough despite knowing, factually, that it was only over the past few days that I've called him first. Why do I keep track of this, however? I don't know. Last week, when I was pissed at him and didn't give a shit, I didn't even want him to call or text; but now, I think that he only texted last week because he knew that I was upset, which makes me think that perhaps that's the only way he'd call or text.
None of this makes any sense. This brings me back to what I said before: I am tired of being myself. I don't know what I feel when my impulses contradict each other from day to day. It's probably not even this complicated; but in my head, everything becomes complicated.
I think I just really need to get out of London and out of Europe and away from this horrid winter and back home to my humid, tropical country in which I will once again sweat ten thousand buckets while playing tennis, complain about the heat, enjoy delicious real non-European food, and feel something that resembles "myself" - whatever that means - again.
I can't wait to go home. 26 January to 10 February. I can't wait.