For the first time since our breakups, there’s been a few days here and there in which I’ve not thought about any of my exes. I told my therapist about it. “I had a breakthrough,” I said; “I realized that I’ve been holding on to my past relationships not as much for the women in them, but rather for this feeling of butterflies and happiness they evoke. But, in reality, those feelings, those experiences; they all happened for who I was (and they were) at that point in time. They stayed consistent all the way through, but I changed. That Eduardo they met and loved, I’m not him anymore. I’ve grown. I’ve evolved. I’ve matured. It is not me anymore, sitting on that bar in Barrio Yungay at 10 PM on a Wednesday night, falling in love with this hipster viking from Norway. It’s also not me in Egypt, getting high smoking shisha under the sun in that dusty bar, talking about our potential future in Chile with a Dane. I love the memories, but I cannot recreate them because that version of me is no longer who I am. There’s no going back.” My therapist just sat there and listened, nodding with a satisfied and even proud smile upon her face.
I felt so long like a small stone, rolling down a white water river. Furiously crashing against the rocks on my way down the incessant stream. But now, well, I’m the motherfucking force of nature instead. Not a pebble dragged by the water current, but a storm in the ocean, throwing waves and sinking ships. Unstoppable. Unmatched.
I feel sad for them now; the women in my past. Those who had me in their hand but let me go, just for the sake of keeping their door open for others to come in. Those that negatively compared me with other men, as if they ever have or ever will meet someone who can get anywhere near rivaling even the lowest, more faulty piece of me. It’s painful putting myself in their shoes.
Being in this position though, as exultant as it sounds, is no easy feat. Becoming aware of my greatness doesn’t blind me of my flaws, nor excuse me of wrongdoings. If anything, it makes them ever so present and wildly vivid. It’s daunting, and tiring. I feel very alone, in this new position of grandiosity with no benefits, of empowerment without any real power nor mandate.
In this place of what some might consider privilege, I’m nothing but vulnerable. My heart is exposed, my body naked. And I seek the warmth of arms and hands and lips and kind words, but not just about anybody’s arms and hands and lips and words. There lies then the paradox of these realizations and awakenings: the more you know about the world, the more cynical you become, and the closer you get to discovering your full potential, the farther you wander from the rest of humanity. Where can I find then, I wonder, whom with satiate this urge for skin, for closeness, for support? What a fucking disgrace, innit?
I’m so open to love now, but so stranded from it. Ironically, it’s the only thing that can push me to overcome this last stretch of the road. For fuck’s sake.
I sit by the window, afternoon rays of light hitting the armrest of my colorful sofa. I can’t look into the apartments across the street, the sun bouncing in their windows. Although unaware of their intimacy, I can somewhat feel it. The changing of diapers, the answering of emails before the new working week begins, the Sunday naps, the dinner making, the fucking, the shitting, the watching tv, the playing of video games… While here I gaze into nothingness, letters building sentences on a Retina screen; here I am the Chilean stray dog deprived of food and sleep, slowly dying while the Great Danes fatten themselves by their fireplaces and their social security, under the blanket of privilege and not giving a fuck about any others than themselves.
Typing all of this in the latest Macbook Pro; listening to my Premium Spotify on my new AirPods. Fuck you society! And fuck you too, self-awareness! Right?