November 5, 1992 • Seattle • فيزا
hours off the road: about 32
Good evening, beloved, new piece of paper of fortune of my secrets. I wonder when the fuck will I stop taking (almost hourly) track of the chaotic, painful and hurtful mess that my life has become in the last day and a half, but in my state, I feel like I oughta cope one way or another. The wound for all of what I've had to endure and am still enduring is still open, the bruises that my so-called boyfriend gave me for no reason are still very visible and purplish on my wrists... but, not very much to my surprise nor to my pleasure, I've found out that sitting down, having tea, setting up my incense burner, withdrawing from (lived) life and writing after a long and gruelling day kinda helps with the way I'm feeling. It is not the act of writing in itself that is soothing... it's more of how writing can make a distrusted, done dirty girl who trusts no one anymore feel like she couldn't be betrayed, this time.
My ex boyfriend is somewhere I don't really know, he's just jumped off stage, or at least so I think judging by the fact that it's twenty to midnight... and he's either fucking my best friend in the first available portable closet backstage, or trying to charm another girl by offering her drinks at some shitty fucking night club. That while I'm here, home alone, miserable, missing out on some shit because I've made the super wrong decision of withdrawing from social life tonight... and thinking that some wise Latin man I can't remember the name of wasn't entirely wrong, when he wrote 'verba volant, scripta manent'. I don't do Latin, as you can remember I didn't know the meaning of the Latin word 'fellatio', but Sean did and used it as a way to prank me and insult my intelligence... but that's not the point. The point is that words are in vain, they are free and sinuous in their form, and that they fly away like butterflies at their first given chance to. That's what 'verba volant' means, and if I'm entitled to have my say here, although I'm no wise Latin man, I'm tired of casting a few of my ones on people who, at the end of the day, I don't know whether I should trust or not. It's what's written that remains, that's what 'scripta manent' means... and although your first thought now would be 'ok, then Sean's note attached to the chocolates of earlier today will remain, you dummy', I will have to correct you, and tell you that in my personal view of things, everything that will remain here is the memory of my first real heartbreak in these few scattered pages that I'm writing to pass the time.
Now I'm weak and vulnerable, I'd like to either cry or turn back time so that I'd think twice before leaving the love of my life... but one day I will be healed from this massive heartbreak, I will read these very same few pages, and laugh at the memory of what a sappy asshole I ended up becoming, the first time I ever fell in love for real (and hard) in my life. Sure, I would've liked to have a happier memory of the love of my life and I together, I knew we weren't destined to be together for a long time for a number of reasons, geographical distance on top of the list... but I just didn't expect that we'd someday be over because he couldn't use his words with me, because I couldn't overcome my pride and forgive him for his wrongdoings, and because he decided to move on by bedding my bestest best friend in the world. Things took a turn, a very painful one for me, and even if I've gotten sick and tired of writing about him, sore in the (already bruised) wrist too, I feel like I just can't help myself. I gotta do what I gotta do. Because if I don't do it, what am I gonna do instead? Hold everything inside and fucking explode and die? Call him and tell him the way I feel? For him? Because of him? Sing him the decadent tale of my misery and make him feel even more apologetic about what he had the courage to do to me? Trust me, I would, if he'd only pick up his damn phone and give me some of his fucking time.
But he won't do that, he's too busy fucking, fucking around, or fucking playing some unknown mind game with me, I just don't know. I tried to call him this afternoon from a dirty fucking token phone down the road, and he didn't answer. If I called him now, from the comfort and the cleanness of my apartment, he wouldn't answer and I know it by heart. If I called Bessie, she wouldn't answer either, because Sean and her are too busy fucking on their respective issues to give a flying fuck about me. So, given my impossibility to talk to anyone who ain't my best friend from university now, and trust me I feel bad to pour it all on her as she's had me and my paranoias in her ears for solid eight hours nonstop... how's a short (I hope) recap of the last whole day, from the moment I left Sean's roses and chocolates on my kitchen table, had my second coffee of the day and went to the University? I'm sure your answer to my rhetorical question would be 'nooooooo Faiza please, I don't need to hear any more of your useless, repetitive bullshit', but I'll say 'okay, let's go for it nonetheless'. Because y'know, today hasn't been a totally shitty day, and I want to take a little pride in the fact that not only I can function even with a broken heart, but that I'm also much more in this life, than someone's punchbag kinda girlfriend and sloppy second.
