Newsies Oneshots 2.0

I Get Lonely, Too-Davey-centered, Javey

I get lonely.

In fact, I've felt that for the past few months, but also not. I don't know—I suppose I'm in some sort of abusive relationship with loneliness, in which I don't know whether I should stay or go, but I know for sure it's arms are warm, and I'm welcome any time.

"This is so stupid", Davey mumbled, scratching at his brow. How ridiculous it was to sit here after work, after speaking to and affirming the relationships he'd had since high school—not that they needed to be reaffirmed. He was secure in them.

He supposed those thoughts were why he was writing this entry anyway.

I don't know what to do with my life. I don't know what to say to it. If my life and I were at the same bar, I would narrowly avoid it, the same way a child does when seeing their teacher at the grocery store. That's stupid, right?—immature? I feel like I'm peeling my own skin and then complaining about the pain.

It's like an ex I saw in passing, but he's much more successful than I am: he's making six figures and I'm working the same job I was when we first met, and there's some sort of financial dominance between us. Most people would bend over backwards for an opportunity to meet someone like that, but I just feel insecure...and scared.

Only mildly.

"Why am I lying to myself?" Davey mumbled as he erased the sentence. "That's stupid, lying to yourself."

I'm terrified. My life is ten years ahead of me. My boyfriend is ahead, and so are my friends and family, and I'm only being kept around because the guilt of pushing me away would...I don't know if they'd even feel guilty. Perhaps it's to spare my feelings. The guilt of letting them go would eat me alive.

I often wish I'd never wake up from the next time I fall asleep. Or that some impending doom would befall me. But I can't wish for that, right? It may come true, and then I'm not only at fault for the ending of my life, but of others, in both contexts.

Davey sighed. His words truly weren't falling through him, not to they have for the last couple of months. Jack would come up with some crude way to describe his block, but he preferred to say writer's block, especially over the idea of his mind being so messed up, his only outlet of expression was running away from it. Or erectile dysfunction of the brain, as Jack would say.

"Beautiful", Davey mumbled, groaning as the image was seared into his brain. "Just...wonderful."

His therapist did say to write down anything.

Erectile Dysfunction of the Brain: getting little to know reaction from stimulating or helpful activities despite how it was.

That's sounded awful.

Sometimes I feel like I'm watching myself from outside of my body. Like I'm listening in on a muffled conversation. But I know what to say, and do, and I'm amazing—I'm brilliant, even. Yet I'm missing myself. I've become a blob of a human being.

And this blob comes and goes whenever he wants. Some days I'll be life reincarnate and others I'm...I'm dead.

I can see the defeated and disappointed looks of my peers, and the dejected faces of those who have energy I can't reach anymore. And I don't feel bad—it's not my job to do that for you. I'm not your fucking hype guy, Sa- I won't finish that. But I'm not.

I used to romanticized loneliness, that feeling of longing and fear sandwiched together. Writers seemed to take bites of that every chance they got, and I always wanted to taste it. Now that I have, I know how disgusting it is, and how intense the after taste is.