The three seven

Woke up and rolled over to her side of the bed. 7:20 AM. Sunday, January 26th 2020. Second day as a 37-year-old man. Exhausted, but unable to sleep. Thought about her, leaving my life for good the previous morning. Felt the helplessness of withdrawal and this unwanted, new found bachelor life. “I need to get my shit together. I really, really need to,” I thought. Ran out of excuses. Of time.
The Lost find each other. It’s like a universal law. We found each other and couldn’t let go. But, in the end, there was no winning. No matter who was right -if any-; regardless of how much time, effort and love we put in. No one left triumphant. We both moved away more lost than in the beginning.
In the midst of these convoluted times, I took a selfie and put it on Instagram. I was curious if one could see the struggle in my face; some trace of tragedy in my eyes or my wrinkles. Also wanted to leave a testimony of the new year being added onto the old me. Some say I look younger than I am. Not that I give a fuck, honestly. Don’t care much about aging as much as I do about the aimlessness of my life, now excruciatingly clear as I face this new breakup.
C grounded me to something real, palpable. Now I’m back to drifting away in the wind. Full of freedom, empty of clarity. Which at times was exciting; the seemingly endless possibilities. But years do go by, inevitably. And as I float over life, the ones I love are all the way down on the ground, anchored to their calm and predictable existence. How I envy them.
There’s no roadmap for the ones who chose taking a detour in life. Being a trailblazer into the unknown fucking sucks ass. I have no referents nor leads to follow. No notion of what’s next, or which steps to take. So I need -I must- fucking get my shit together already. What am I running away from? Is the answer within, somewhere in here?

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