A sense of directionless pervades my days in recent time. I attribute that solely to my woeful lack of reading. I have spent the past month re-reading ‘England, England’ - which makes no sense because it’s one of my favourite novels and it’s not meant to be a long read. So this really just means that I have not been reading at all.
Forgive the melodrama, the inflated sense of importance, but I feel spiritually, mentally and emotionally starved. I feel disconnected from the literary written word, and so I feel as if my days are marred by a superficiality that can only be cured by literature. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing instead of reading; it doesn’t matter that I’ve been busy with the Journal, or trying to be busy with the PhD, or having too many social events (I’ve just gone five days in a row seeing people every evening; granted, three consecutive evenings were taken up by Thomas, but still), or seeing Thomas. None of this matters because reading is one of my most basic needs, and I have not been reading, and so it stands to reason that I have found it utterly difficult to write the first chapter of the PhD.
But let’s not talk about the PhD. I don’t want to think about how I should have finished this last month but haven’t, so let’s not talk about it. What matters is literature. And writing. I just want one afternoon - one measly afternoon - of sitting in a cafe with a proper book and letting my book tell the time, and not having to think about the PhD or the Journal; or, indeed, my life.
I want to read and write but there are all these other things in the way. The PhD. The Journal. My love life. My friends. It feels as if there is something missing - a fundamental part of me - even as I am kept occupied (way too occupied).
I was looking forward to a nice evening by myself tonight, the first evening in literally a week that I had to myself. As much as I like going out and seeing people - as much as I like being with Thomas - too much time spent with other people takes a toll on me. I’d been feeling like I needed to recharge as early as Monday (though my world weary fatigue was mostly fuelled by PMS), but I’d already agreed to Tuesday dinner with Pablo and Raffie last week and I don’t like to cancel plans; and I’d wanted to see Thomas yesterday. And so I was looking forward to spending my evening at home.
But in the end, I spent the whole time working on the Journal. I’m now exhausted. I’m just so tired of everything - so tired of my disconnection from literature. I just want one afternoon of book and coffee. Why is such a simple activity so hard to come by?
I don’t know why I’m slightly bothered by the fact that Thomas never mentioned his trip to Barcelona a couple of weeks ago, but I am. I found out when I was going through his Instagram photos about an hour ago. He seems to have gone around the time of the aftermath of my drunken text message. How strange that he didn’t mention it before - when I was over at his the night I told him I have herpes - and after, ie. all these times we’ve met since then.
I’m bothered not because I think he’s hiding something; I know that he’s not. I’m bothered, I think, because this seems to be quite a significant event in his life and he’s not mentioned it at all - which makes me feel like I’m not really a part of his life. Does this sound absolutely stupid? Why can’t I stop feeling these stupid girly irrational things?
But in fairness to me, and more seriously, this seems rather suggestive of what’s probably my biggest concern about long distance and him: he doesn’t really say a lot. He’s the kind of person who replies to a long message that basically took back a self-invitation to his solo trip just in case he felt pressured with, ‘Mountain Blue :)’ I think it’s really cute that he calls me that, and I wasn’t expecting a long response; but I just don’t get him in this regard. I really don’t. He’s not very forthcoming with his thoughts and feelings; for instance, he’d only explicitly said that he absolutely liked me when he’d thought that he’d lost me.
My perception of our communication being defective was what helped me rationalise my drunk text, and despite the ex post facto rationalisation, it really was a huge issue for me. How could I not have felt that he’d liked me? How could he have gone more than 24 hours of no contact after I’d made myself vulnerable to him and told him that I have herpes? I suppose this is yet another instance of our bad communication because we’ve not talked about this at all. He seems to be as avoidant as I am when it comes to serious matters. I thought that I could just let it all go because some of it had stopped bothering me...but maybe not.
More than just communication, though it’s a function of what I’m going to say, what would give me pause about a long distance relationship with him is my present doubt as to whether he’d be able to provide the emotional support that I need - not just in regards to us, but for everything in my life. I wonder if his military life has influenced the way he opens up - or really, not open up - emotionally to someone else. In the same vein, I wonder how much the military has affected his capacity to take on another’s emotional burdens.
But all this matters for only one reason: I want this to work. I said in a previous entry that I won’t give up on him so easily ever again, and so I won’t make assumptions about, and probably faulty deductions from, his career choice. A conversation is warranted...but I’m tired of these serious conversations, necessary as they are. Why can’t things just be simple?