I’m tired. Tired. So fucking tired. Not because I’ve not sleep well since June 2020, when I broke up for the last time with my ex C. Not either because it’s Friday evening and I’m back home, tipsy, after some drinks at my new job. Nah. It’s not just that. I’m fucking tired of being alone, and lonely. I’m exhausted. Down and low, because I’m the only idiot who’s coming back home to an empty table, an empty apartment, and an empty fucking life. And my new colleagues and my friends and my family only talk about their significant others and their kids. And I cannot be further away from all of that. And I am banned from all the dating apps and even from watching porn by my therapist. And I know it’s for the best, to work on myself. But now I’m kinda drunk and lonely and sad and hungry and raw. And my words are raw too, because I’m bleeding out my suffering onto these keys, onto this laptop, onto this blank page in the cyberspace. So you can laugh at my pain. This is somewhat funny, I know. 39 and single. 39, single and no kids. “My mom is SO disappointed,” I say. As a joke. But it’s no joke. Or the joke’s on me. Motherfucking me. It could have been over, eight years ago. I fucked that one up, with my ex L. And last night I dreamt of her. Sort of. Or maybe it was C. I never saw her face. We were in Chile, Viña del Mar perhaps. It was a sunny day, and we were at a market, browsing handcrafts and shit. I was holding her from behind. My arms around her waist, my face sunk in her hair. It smelled good. And it felt grandiose, fucking spectacular. I was happy, at last. Felt home. Felt fulfilled and done. That was it: bliss. So maybe all I need to get there is sticking to the plan. No apps. No Tinder, specially. But I’m alone in the darkness of my living room and nothing I can do now will help me wash away this feeling of neglect and utmost defeat. Where are you, babe? Where are you, if you even exist? I seek your warmth to only find and empty space where you should be. And people talk so openly about their wives and husbands and boyfriends and girlfriends and kids and dogs and motherfucking cats. My smile is open, but they can’t see my grief behind it. I know that I have failed. I have fucked everything up. And I remember that this woman I fucked once, last year, said she had a weekend morning ritual: having coffee and reading a book, by the window. And I said that sounded very cosy, and she replied “But it gets old, inevitably.” Now I get it. Every day, every weekend, every holiday. It’s all the fucking same. Same old, same old. And my gut gets bigger, and my self-esteem get smaller. And I have so much love to give, but nobody there to give it too. And tonight, just like every single fucking night, I’ll fall asleep hugging my pillow. The one my ex used to use. A sad, now unused spot. Barren and alone. Like myself.