Rendezvous
20 November 05 : 01.27 PM
I reached home at about 5am last night. In the car, I fell asleep to Portishead and instinctively woke up when I was reaching my place. I looked at my make-up, with my mascara that ran and bronze-black eyeliner that smudged, I was quite a mess.
Suddenly I wasn't so tired, and I didn't want to sleep yet. I took out Life is Beautiful and had it played, like a silent movie. I wore this oversized tee, a tee my mom had placed in my room for Christian to wear to sleep when he stays over. My make-up was still on, and on me the strong smell of cigarettes lingered like too much alcohol. I took out the Unbearable Lightness of Being, b.'s, and tried to read it. With Nietszche and infinity and eternal return all just on the first page alone, I couldn't bear reading it tonight. Not tonight, at least.
He'd called me at 3am, and asked where I was, and I said I wasn't home. He was near my place and wanted to meet me. I didn't, as I usually would, try to get home as fast as possible, or ask to meet him somewhere. Or just even at home, waiting for that call that I used to receive so often.
It's the 20th today. And it was b. I called before I went home just to say goodnight. And I stayed up listening to the silence and thinking about wanting to wait for the sun to rise and then falling asleep. And I have the disc b. compiled for me being played on repeat. And I'm writing this.
A realization hit me, hard like an adrenaline, that it was over. We were over and past. And although it pains me to think that way, it is, and it was okay.