anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,
anotherlongshot
anotherlongshot

A Bad Day

Today is one of those days of waking up on the wrong side of bed, coupled with a relentless attack of PMS, making everything go downhill and feel worse than it is. I am besetted by a sense of melancholy and restlessness, a loss of motivation, a stab of homesickness, and petulant irritation with how provincial it is, the place in which I currently reside. Not to mention the weather: the dry air that makes my eyes sting, the forceful gusts of wind that threatens to knock me over, the sporadic light rain that annoys more than anything.

I feel like going home, and so I am slightly comforted by the fact that I will be home in less than a month. This ennui is both surprising and completely expected. It is not really simply about living on my own; it is also about the place where I live. I am sick of the inconvenience of the below-average public transport, and no, the point is not to get a bike; the point is that bikes are even needed in the first place. I am tired of walking twenty minutes to get to the law faculty, ten minutes to Sainsbury's, at least fifteen minutes to town, and even then, there is nothing interesting to do in town. The smallness of this village is stifling. It is so dull that I miss the MRT, and I always feel a rush of excitement when I'm in London and riding the Tube.

There is also the issue of my academic work: the conference paper and the PhD. Is it possible that every time I write a new paper, I think it is the worst thing that I have ever written in my life? I would attempt to pinpoint the fundamental reason for this negative attitude towards my own work, but I don't know what it is. I genuinely think that it's bad. I think it's not well-researched. I think the arguments are trite and tenuous. I think, fundamentally, it is boring. I think that I don't really care. That was what I thought when I left the library at 6.30 and walked through the University Library carpark, barely lit by the orange glow of the paltry street lamps: I don't really care. But I know that that is because I am tired, I am PMSing, I am moody, and so everything sucks twice as much; but I'm more or less genuinely convinced that my conference paper is bad.

I have not done any substantial work on the PhD. I am back to not knowing what I'm doing...but have I really known what I'm doing anyway?

On top of all this, I suddenly miss G like crazy. I wish I could see him, talk to him, collapse into his arms like a baby, let him make me feel better, even if only for a while. I would even let him tell me to 'shut up' in that amusedly exasperated way of his when I start whining about how stupid I am and how my paper sucks and how I don't know what I'm doing and how I want to drop out. I hate not being able to have what I want right in this moment; and it is G that I want. I miss the feeling of his arms around me, his lips on my neck, my fingers lightly tracing his arm.

Whatever happened between us made me think that he's once in a lifetime. Ordinarily, I am able to suppress that and not think about it; it is pointless to think about it because he is not here, and he won't be here for months, and even if we do see each other next January, it will be for a few days; and then he won't be here again. Thinking about how special he is and how he made me feel will only drive me crazy, and so I don't think about it that much. I still think about him; I think about him all the time. But I don't dwell on the intensity of our connection, how present and connected with the world I felt when I was with him, the sheer joy and excitement.

Tonight, however, I cannot stop crying. Of course, it's almost entirely due to the PMS, but still - it feels like a raw ache, this missing him. It is an emptiness that has yet to be filled. I am forcing myself not to text him because I know the cause of this moodiness, and so there is no point in telling him about it.

Still - a couple of days before he left Singapore for San Francisco, just as I finally and rather tearfully brought up the fact that he was leaving, he joked, 'In a few months' time you'd be like, Who's this Greek guy?' A couple of weeks before that, on a Friday night, when we were having drinks in a bar in One Rochester, he joked, 'You'll find some French guy in November or something who will tell you about Foucault and you'll forget all about me.'

Wrong on all counts, G. So frightfully wrong. I almost wish that you were right; perhaps I would be happier, certainly relieved of the burden of this constant missing you which sometimes makes me cry. You are so absent from my life that it is almost as if you don't exist. And yet, you are a persistent fixture in my thoughts, a permanent occupant of my heart. I almost wish that I could exorcise you because sometimes - like tonight - this feels like it is unbearable, this longing for your presence, for you.

I don't wish for that, however. I think I should, but I don't. In my mind, it's about how we'd get to see each other, and when, and where; it's hardly ever about 'I wish I'd never met him', not even when I'm pissed off at you for not replying to my text message for two days. I don't know why this is. I would like to figure it out. I would like to know if you are truly once in a lifetime, or if the unrealised potential of the romance that we had, and perhaps still have, is making you out to be so when in fact, you are just some guy. Yet, I am almost afraid to find out...because G, missing you really sucks.
Tags: angst, cambridge, g, phd, pms, work
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