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@franilein
I don’t know why I always feel compelled to write about my life after midnight, especially when I’m feverish. I started feeling unwell around five in the afternoon, while ironing five blouses to go to work and watching the Pagliacci episode of Seinfeld on TV. Very good episode.
This week went by quickly, as all weeks do. I’m not sure if anything interesting happened, since almost nothing ever does outside of routine. On Monday, I worked from home; I pretended to be sick so I could skip the morning and then returned to work a little later. Sometimes my desire to sleep is so strong I could even cancel my own wedding. I probably went to the gym, to do the Sisyphus, as I like to call the climbing machine. A bit of that and the treadmill, no weights. Even though I’m going to the gym, I’ve been eating poorly. I suppose I should start taking care of my diet again. On Tuesday, I must have gone to work reluctantly, same with Wednesday.
It’s the same every day, or almost. I wake up in a rush because I overslept, because I went to bed late; I shower and leave my hair wet, which leads to frizz during the day, affecting my self-esteem, and I overcompensate with eyeliner and exaggerated lipstick. I still don’t feel pretty. Then the metro, packed, and the guy warning us about the yellow line, about not stepping on it… and as soon as I see the train coming, I step on the yellow line anyway and don’t care.
I arrive a little late, a few minutes, maybe two or three, always out of breath because I take the stairs to the fourth floor. The elevators are always full at 8:30. Work, perform, work. Nothing interesting happened this week, but sometimes that’s exactly what I’m looking for. Last year was awful; tranquility and stability were what I craved most. Yet things have changed, and at the same time, remained the same. I honestly don’t know how to explain it.
On Friday, I went to see my parents. My mom gave me a crochet hook and a ring: it works fantastically. We had lunch, and then I went to get my hair cut. It turned out fantastic. Now it’s red, Igora Royal shade 6.77, with a quite chic cut reminiscent of ’90s fashion: that bob with layers and a glamorous fringe.
Over the weekend I went to the gym, and at night, I cooked while watching some series. At midnight, after a couple of hours of playing Factorio, I opened my novel and started writing. I felt inspired; I ended up writing until four in the morning. If someone does anything and stays up until four a.m., then it’s because it was worth it.
There are no dates, no one I like, no exes. Sometimes I sit on the balcony and smoke a cigarette, thinking about love and how unlucky I’ve been in that regard. I reflect on how unfair it seems that I haven’t been given a mate who matches my libido. I’ve masturbated many times thinking about past encounters that I remember with some fervor.
I’m in a rather dry period of love. I’d love to fall in love many times, meet many men (and women, why not), learn from them and love them to the extreme, and be loved back to the point of exhaustion. I feel a particular hunger inside me that I’ve never fully satisfied. I can always pour my sorrows into words if nothing else works.
But here I am, Sunday night, listening to old jazz, the kind you make love to or write about it to.
Am I a romantic, or simply tragic?
I don’t know, but I’ll try to figure it out, and that’s what matters.
SUNDAY SIESTA #1
Son pasadas las doce, entonces puedo acostarme a escribir en mi cama. Esta semana estuvo mejor que la pasada. Fuimos a comer con mis amigos, creo que fue el Martes, y cuando volvĂ a mi casa no sentĂ deseos de abandonar mi soledad. A veces se me olvida lo genial que es solamente existir junto a otras personas.
El domingo pasado comentĂ© que no habĂa rastros de ningĂşn ex, y quĂ© creerás, pues un ex me contactĂł para hacer lo Ăşnico que hacemos bien: acostarnos.
Yo no soy una persona extremadamente sexual, puedo pasar muchos meses y años sin tener sexo, sin embargo, a esta edad, debo decir que es una de las cosas que siento que debo hacer, tal como ir al gimnasio, o teñirme el cabello cada mes. Es una de las cosas de la lista que debo tachar, como tomar agua, o tomar los antidepresivos.
Ese dĂa especĂfico que me contactĂł, estuvo de cumpleaños P, mi primer amor y Ăşnico amor, debo decir. PensĂ© todo el dĂa en Ă©l, cocinando, recordando esas imágenes que se me vienen a la cabeza de vez en cuando y que jamás le digo a nadie porque me juzgarĂan (con mucha razĂłn) quĂ© estĂ© pensando en mi ex de más de cinco años. Me la pasĂ© feliz escuchando nuestras canciones de amor, mientras hacĂa aseo en la mañana, mientras trabajaba y mientras me devolvĂa en el metro de mi trabajo.
Soy una mujer pĂ©sima, contradictoria: todo el dĂa pensándolo, batallando escribirle o no para que se sintiese bien, querido por mi despuĂ©s de todos estos años, sĂłlo para terminar acostándome con quiĂ©n resultĂł ser su reemplazo.
En mi defensa, debo decir que al segundo, no lo amo. Me gusta su cara y su barba y sus ojos. Me gusta que a veces me entrega pinceladas de vulnerabilidad, aunque lo que más me gusta de él, es que en mi cabeza puedo crearlo y fantasearlo: no me da nada real para conocerlo, por lo tanto para amarlo.
Es muy difĂcil, querida lectora, amar a alguien fuera de las cuatro paredes de mi recámara. El amor debe airearse, caminar de la mano, mirar a los demás mirarte, y ponerse celosa, y jamás decirlo, si es que alguien lo mira demasiado, entonces entiendes su valor, entonces le tomas la mano más tiempo.
Una relaciĂłn de cama, como le digo yo, no es amor. Es cierta compañĂa, vemos series y pelĂculas juntos, comemos comida chatarra y compartimos orgasmos, aunque no al mismo tiempo y aunque a veces por completo. Yo lo sĂ©, querida, yo sĂ© que una debe estar con alguien que te valora por más que nuestros dotes carnales, pero al menos con Ă©l no quisiera que me valorara más de lo que ya me valora. No quiero que me ame, porque yo no estoy enamorada de Ă©l.
Aparte de esta neurosis, continĂşo escribiendo mi novela, que avanzo, de a poco, pero avanzo.