“Oye… necesito tu mail. Me caso…”
“Waaaaa!!!! La zorra!!!!”
“Te enviaré una invitación oficial.”

So my other best friend from Chile, a guy I met and quickly befriended in high school in ‘97, is getting married. Not a huge, shocking surprise, really. He’s been with his one and only girlfriend for the last 20 years. They never had sex with anyone else nor broke up. Overcame all the obstacles and bumps on the road since they met in their first year of college. And now, will be tying the knot in January next year, while am keeping my fingers crossed to being able to make it to their wedding.
So there it is, laid before me. My closest friends are getting married, moving in together, buying properties and having kids. And, as the whole world seems to be getting its shit together, I’m staring at my walls and ceiling, wondering what feces I should start collecting first. Metaphorically, that is. For the most part.
I dreamed about my ex fiancé L last night. My brain, as usual, rubbing in my face the life I could have led but chose to fuck over instead. Is this what it all has come down to? Regrets? Shame? Guilt? Swiping left and right on dating apps, realizing nobody quite makes the cut. Walking out in the streets and passages of Copenhagen, watching everyone in packs or couples, as a big sense of void within my chest settles in.
I told my therapist that I get this deep sadness whenever I see at an old man or lady, on their own. “It’s like I am, in a way, seeing myself in them. Knowing that all the decisions I’ve made will, inevitably, lead me down the same road: ending up completely alone.” It’s heartbreaking, man. Fucked up.
I biked to a hardware store in the suburbs, about one hour out of town; and found myself somewhat comfortable in this more spacious and chill suburban landscape. It reminded me of the days I spent with my ex C over at the small city where she lives, in Jylland. I missed that time. And as I made my way back home surrounded by the trees and the grass and the houses of the outskirts of Copenhagen, I started contemplating what a comeback would look like. “I can work two days ‘from home’ for my job. I could spend the rest of the week at her place. Sometimes she could come over and stay with me, too. And we can go back and forth. It’s not crazy, is it?”
Pipe dreams. I know that. The past is gone. Choices have been made, paths have been taken. The dust and silence have settled. Bridges rest underwater, reduced to ruble and ashes.
How do people move on? How the fuck do they do it?
My hands are full of calluses, cuts, scratches and scars. Been woodworking as a hobby for the last few months. I just finished an amazing workbench for my kitchen… “workshop.” I’m so proud of myself. Even if my downstairs neighbor, an old lady in her 60s or 70s, hates the fuck out of me. “You are too loud!” she says. But fuck her. Building furniture and things off of scrap wood and what most would consider waste, is the most zen activity I’ve found. Perhaps it’s a metaphor for my own life. Creating something new and better from what is broken or just discarded. Reimagining a new way from what didn’t work out. And starting anew.
Hopefully, I’ll figure shit out and, by January, I’ll have a plus one to bring to my friend’s wedding. Someone not made out of wood. Ideally.

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