Part of the reason I enjoyed writing about my trip to Barcelona (which, by the way.. STILL not done and I haven't even gotten to the part about missing my homebound plane! Sigh..) is because I had stuff to write about. I mean, a whole trip! Like 11 days of walking and site seeing and taking in really really old stuff. Picasso and churches and street performers and people from all over the world.. It was an adventure. My adventure. And my first one completely solo at that. Also? I wrote it all down while I was there so when I came back? Instant blog posts. Score! I knew what I would write about because I had pages filled with a kajillion words of introspective crap and all these very interesting observations about everything that make me sound so.. well.. observant. I mean, that's what you're doing when you're people-watching at bars. And drinking a lot. You think you're much cooler than you are. All Jack Kerouac and Anaïs Nin or something.. Very poet-y, but minus the cigarettes and threesomes and really more wide-eyed innocence than anything else. Ok.. I wasn't so innocent. Fine.
I could be someone no one knew over there.. tho, yes, the American amidst more worldly ex-pats, but still, I was among them and I could glean and take it in all spongy like. It was sexy, it was fun, it was spontaneous and unknown.. and also, kind of lonely. But, when I was alone, I tried to be ok in the alone-ness and it's easier when you can sort of blend into the scenery.. even if you stand out like a tourist. I was in a tourist city so no one cared.. and tho at times, I was still intimidated and nervous about being completely on my own for so long, I had no one to answer to, could dally for hours if I wanted to just breathing in the smell of a 12th century church and wondering if God existed because the history of it all just ached of possibility.
And I talked to strangers, made some friends, but my little journal - that was actually a recipe notebook I found out later.. um.. yeah.. I suggest knowing a teensy wee bit of Spanish if you take a trip to SPAIN.. hellooo.. I'm just saying - was my outlet. And please - my handwriting? Ouch. So bad. I used to have really pretty handwriting. More than that, I used to LOVE writing itself. It was so therapeutic and I'd write for hours in my diary when I was younger, I'd write angsty poetry (hey, some of it was pretty good) til my hand cramped. But I didn't bring my laptop to Barcelona because I didn't want it stolen or have it weigh me down and tho typing feels clearer for my thoughts, is a lot faster and allows me to edit more cleanly, the journal was all I had. I only needed a pen and I could be in a bar where I knew no one and still have something to keep me occupied and would exercise my brain.
It's different being back home now. I probably have one more extra long post about Spain before I'm done, but the holidays came up, things got in the way of finishing.. and there isn't so much adventure. Trying to figure out why I'm still healing a broken heart after close to nine months is a mystery - or just a confirmation of how deeply I loved him. While worldly travels and those I met doing that distracted me for a bit, coming home and living the day to day only shined a light on how much direction I still need. What do I do with my life? Why is work so stressful? Another theater seems interesting, so do I join their company when they ask? Why can't I drive down the street his theater is on? Ever? Why is he constantly in my thoughts? Finally - someone interesting.. rush rush rush.. have friend talk. He changes his mind. Yo-yo's between the two. Definitely just friends. No.. he wants more. Email saying otherwise. Done and done. Jackass (him). Idiot (me). Silence (everyone). Angry. Bitter. Sad.
Miss him again. The magic one. The one who said yes when asked if he loved me.. and yes, he promised..
Maybe cry..
Start over tomorrow..
Birthday for a girlfriend. Visit Cayenne and her new baby girl. Push myself at the gym. Second first date with someone from the past. Casual. Have fun. Kiss. Movie plans with gay boyfriend. Baby shower for another friend. Theater meeting.
Continue to move forward.
Have some adventures here. Make a new history.
Sigh.. this is hard work.
4 comments:
Nothing strange about not being over it at nine months. I got a lot of consolation in the one really really hard break-up I've had in my life, when my cousin told me that it would take time and I shouldn't beat myself up about it sometimes feeling as bad as it did when it had just happened. That it wasn't about minding less but minding less often, if that makes sense, that gradually the good days would get more frequent than the bad days and eventually I'd barely think about it at all and suddenly then one day I'd be over it, but it wouldn't be quick. And it was funny, her timescale was almost exactly the same as mine. About 2 weeks to be able to function again, 2-3 months to start thinking I could fancy other people, and about a year to really be moving on. Yet maybe 2-3 years before that was totally whole hearted!
Funny thing was, knowing it would take a long time wasn't depressing but liberating. Instead of worrying I should have moved on quicker, I knew just because it wasn't ok again straight away didn't mean it wouldn't be ok again eventually.
You'll be ok. Just keep going, and enjoy the good days.
I LOVE this entry. It came at the perfect moment... It's great to read about your independence and strength and all-round awesomeness.
I think I need to go on a trip.
Oh and I so get the whole sitting in a bar with a drink, your diary and your own thoughts. Fantastic.
b: That was a very sweet comment, thank you. I'll keep that all in mind. PS to you: I can't see your blog anymore. Do I get permission? Pretty please?
alexia: You are very sweet especially since I think my independence was something I forced upon myself. Aren't you like.. in Greece? That's like the best trip ever imagined.. isn't it? ;)
Oh, I just saw this comment! Delayed reaction much? I wrote a half-hearted blog entry. I'm too sore to care. Why am I sore? Find out in my latest entry- how terribly exciting...not.
I live in Greece because, well... I'm Greek. I mean, I was born in Australia but my 'rents are Greek by birth and I grew up here and shit, so... not really an adventure, no. It's just home.
I did go live in Asia for 6 months last year though! That was half awesome and half shit. Maybe I should be writing about shit like that...
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