I think the more I want something it becomes less of a tangible possibility. Sometimes at night when I’m feeling maudlin, like right now, I allow myself to really feel the depth of my failure. The deep cavern inside of me echoing shades of blue and grey. Washing over my body like waves but the ocean is too beautiful a metaphor for loneliness.
I’ve talked before about being an intense person. I’m a lot. I’m too much. I know these things and yet the wanting inside of me is still staggering even to myself. To others it must seem entirely alien. Feeling too much always got me into trouble as a kid, hiding my feelings too well got me in trouble later on.
I am a failure. Its hard to stomach but its true. It might not always be true, but for the time being it is. I’m a failure at romance, at work, and at my finances. I’ve got to say they all feel different to me. A friend told me I have pain synesthesia because I describe painful sensations with colors, but this kind of pain has color too.
Blue is associated with sadness but only my loneliness is blue. Blue and grey for the tears and the bleakness of staring at my wall. Blue like my face when i hold my breath at night. Grey like the mascara on my white pillowcase. But failing professionally is orange. Its hot burning embarrassment stabbing my throat. Its bursting out of my chest and its pressing my eyes to my steering wheel until I see stars. Orange stars.
