The French girl I was “seeing” came over for a couple of hours on Tuesday evening. “I wanna hear you play the guitar again,” she said; so I did. I stared at my clumsy fingers, as I sang my way through a few simple songs. She clapped when I finished, as the audience of an artist at the end of a concert. “Your singing voice is very different,” she told me. “So I’ve heard,” I replied, awkwardly. Then I fucked her for the last time. And now she’s gone.
I quite enjoyed her company. A little oasis of calm in the shit-storm of existential angst and anxiety that’s been fucking me -and my gut- over the last few weeks. The question remains, though. “What now?” Because in our first sex encounters I realized I cannot fuck without an actual connection. Not anymore. Which, of course, renders my original idea of not committing to any sort of relationship completely useless. As if I didn’t have enough problems already.
I keep thinking about Anna, sometimes. She was definitely the highlight of my year. Now that I come to think about it, everything started going to shit after we broke up. It might be an unfortunate coincidence. Or not. Her absence has made the lack of any significant human connections in my life very obvious, and the emotionally disengaged environment that surrounds me in this cold fucking city feels more present than ever.
Around a week ago, I woke up in the middle of the night. In the darkness, still somewhat unconscious, I understood that I had nothing and nobody. I felt the deep gloomy realization of absolute loneliness creeping up on me. And it was scary. And true.
Fuck you, Copenhagen. Fuck you, Denmark.
Amongst this struggle, I haven’t been able to write. My head is spinning out of control and my bowels constantly feel like they are about to fucking burst. I can’t find my center. I can’t seem to understand my purpose. I’m an aimless shot in the dark, going nowhere. What am I? Am I even a writer, or a “man”? Is this just another existential crisis that will make me stronger, or is this anxiety here to stay?
Funnily enough, I can’t help but smiling when I look back at the last five years. All the drugs, the booze, the women, the fucking. All the shitty writing and all the stunts to get to where I am. I never thought I would be able to achieve any of this. Yet, I did. Maybe now, looking forward, the same fear from before is blinding me. “Will I be able to keep this up or will I fail?” We’ll see. Hopefully not in another 5 years, but sooner. Way sooner.