All my friends in Copenhagen are either visiting their families, traveling or, simply, busy. A mix of my fucking left ankle old injury coming back and the fucked up Chile’s social and political turmoil has left me stranded in Denmark for the holidays. I’m so fucking bored. Days slowly go by and I’m mostly locked in my flat, watching Netflix or scary YouTube videos, jerking off or playing on my phone. Killing hours and counting the days to my ex’s visiting to celebrate New Year’s Eve. My ex C, of course. The one that doesn’t hate me.
There are plenty layers of fucked-up-ness on my current situation. But I refuse to linger on the do’s and don’ts, as they won’t relief this tedium nor the isolation I feel whenever I step outside and realize, once more, how lonely my days are. “It’s only temporary. 2020, man. It’ll all be better in 2020,” I say to myself. Defusing my angst.
“Stop whining and go back to your fucking country already!” you will then say. Logical, I know. But I just can’t. I’m overcome by this feeling of incompleteness inside, like there’s something to learn or do before I can return. I am here for a reason, evidently. All the roads seem to have, eventually and inevitably, got me here. Laura, my ex L or my first Danish fling -from back in Santiago-; they all were a fast-track to Europe. And probably there were others, on a queue. It was unavoidable. Fate, if you may.
I know it sounds crazy. Perhaps these are just the ramblings of an egocentric creep, or a coping mechanism to stop me from going insane in the darkness of winter and the loneliness of this never-ending Christmas holidays. Or it’s a normal part of the human condition to seek, in the divine and the mundane, an explanation to our existence. Or I’m so well off now with my high IT developer income that I’m suffering with First World problems. The search for meaning is a luxury that one can only afford once all other needs are covered. Am I right or am I right?
Who knows, really. At least I killed almost an hour now. Writing saves.

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