I suppose there's something to be said for wandering.
I haven't been to the gym in over three weeks, but as I wander a couple of kilometres around the house each day, maybe it's doing my poor arse some good. It's wishful thinking of course, but everything I want these days is wishful thinking.
Television is abrasive to my nerves lately, and focus has become a hot commodity, so reading is out, too. God knows, I'm not getting any work done during the day, so there's no sense at trying to make logic of any numbers on a computer in front of me.
So I wander. I walk around the house, and every so often, I go out to the backyard, and sometimes the front, and tonight, I even crossed the road because Paul, who lost his father two and half years ago, was having a cigarette on his driveway, and I was tired of smoking alone. Once upon a time, I used to baby-sit Paul, and tonight, for 20 minutes and one and a half cigarettes, he babysat me.
That's another thing that's changed. I used to be a dainty smoker, one who would let her cigarettes go stale before she finished them. Less than a pack a week was enough, really. All of a sudden, smoking has become very important to my wanderings, and I'm starting not to recognize myself. Who is this girl who wants a cigarette during daylight hours, without the company of a drink, or the ambience of a social setting?
Who am I, now, really? I asked someone last weekend if they had any siblings. And then, I realized that I don't know how to answer that question myself. I have a sister. I had a brother. What does one say? I don't think that's a question I'll ask anymore.
In fact, I don't know what to say anymore. The most mundane things will bring up a flash, a memory, and I'll well up and that will be the end of that conversation. So I've taken to not talking that much, to wandering away from the multitudes that gather at my house every evening. I don't understand myself anymore. Multitudes of people are what I live for; talking is what I do best, dammit!
Who is this girl, who doesn't sparkle, and can't enjoy the books she lived for, and doesn't, doesn't, doesn't have a brother anymore?
And so I wander. When it gets too late to do that, I sit in the dining room with my laptop, because the dining room is the one room that doesn't hold traces of Frankie in every single object. And the harsh lines of the laptop looks out of place in this elegant and formal setting, but everything is out of place in my world right now, so what would have once bothered hell out of me doesn't matter anymore.
Midnight will pass, and so will one, and eventually two, and I'll surf through, looking at sites I won't remember the next day. For a few days after the wonder that was JCon, I did some back copy reading to catch up, but now, it's easier to just mindlessly click through endless games of Spider Solitaire. I'm doing a lot of research too, about things that will possibly make a 25-year old heart stop, but then I start to diagnose and figure that Frankie had every disease known to man, and now I have them, too. And so back to Solitaire and Go Fug Yourself I go.
Tomorrow, like today and yesterday, I'll think about some errands that need to be run, and end up not doing them because while staying home is horrible, it's safer than leaving the house. Ironic, because I can't wait to leave the country. Running to the bank is hard, because they know me there, and they'll offer their condolences. Going to the gym is impossible, because they'll look at me brightly and say, "Mare! Too long! What happened to you?" But if I just hop the first plane out of here, I'm pretty sure that no one on the other side will do that tilt of their head, and scrunch up their eyes, and say in a low tone, "How'reyoudoin'?Youok?Holdingup?"
I feel like I'm waiting for something; a sign, a grand gesture, something, anything, to give me some purpose. Maybe that's what I'm looking for in my wanderings, you know?
It has to be something like that. It has to be, because I know that the only other thing I could be looking for just won't be there.
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