Saturday: I find myself curled up in bed at 3:00 pm, waking up from a nap I hoped would cure me of wondering about how things go wrong, how bad news springs itself on you without warning. There is a feeling like trains derailing, like weighty things coming loose. I respond to texts. I’m going out tonight. The feeling lingers–I realize I’d been dreaming of my father. We were having coffee, he was lecturing me about going home more often. If I told my sister this, she would try and reenact it and so I don’t. Until now, I don’t tell anyone. The act of asking is beside the point. I take Noel’s advice and leave space. It would not be the same, it is not the same. My father is a ghost. I think of Hemingway and the cracks and the light and how much of it is healthy to let in. (Maybe not as much as Hemingway did.) Friday: I sleep in. Most days I’m up by 05:30 am; it is my day off so I leave it until 08:00 am which I have convinced myself is a good time to eat breakfast. When I wake up, my flatmates are getting ready to leave for work. I make myself a sandwich, slice apples. We share. I read a little. The book is not as good as the one I just finished. I will finish it faster. I make another sandwich. I read about Luis Katigbak dying. He was nice. I remember him asking for snacks. It reminds me of my father and a dream I have yet to have. Thursday: Free tells me I’ve been hot-headed lately. It irks me but only because I know it’s true. I try to be carefree, joke around a little. I let her tease me about being awkward and uncoordinated. It’s a hectic day at work. It’s my Friday so I indulge myself on my lunch break and dream of a life where I don’t have to hunt down disasters for a living. Wednesday: I wake up to the release of Young Forever. I had a shit day Tuesday and wake up feeling like I’m hungover even if I’m not. I wake up awake, as though I haven’t slept at all, am not coming out of anything. I watch the video. The song is beautiful. My favorite line is in parentheticals, as subbed. (Dream, Hope, keep going) I take a shower, rush to the office. Frances and I watch the music video together. We speculate re: what really happened. I am a fool for plot. For instance, the day before was terrible. I feel like this has dropped on my lap wrapped in metallic paper. I watch it all day. I am a bit sad I didn’t stay up for it. But I didn’t know. I hear my mother’s voice anyway: ye of little faith. (She has never said this to me in real life.) Tuesday: It was so bad I don’t want to talk about it. Monday: I am at dinner with a friend who is leaving to go on a break. I hear her talk about things passionately, feel her talk about her feelings, about the inescapable existential crisis. I feel myself try to hold it together. I understand, but I don’t. For the nth time, I kick myself for thinking that it must be so easy to be so broken: everyone forgives you for saying can’t, can’t, can’t. Sunday: I am at work.
Saturday: I am with my bestfriends drinking somewhere in BGC. We drench ourselves in Amaretto while watching men fight on the TV screen. We’re laughing and laughing and laughing. One of us is missing; I am afraid it will be like that in the future. In two hours, we will be on our way home. Friday: Keavin and I have a late dinner date. Before that, I write myself into what feels like a coma. Finish a story, submit it. I re-read and re-write and re-word and it’s therapeutic and exhausting. Lia tells me my story reminds her of someone who already exists. When she shows me, I feel myself swoon. I didn’t invent this person. Thursday: Joelle comes home early and I’m not in the mood to talk but I know she wants to tell me stories about work, so I ask and she tells me. I lend her Lydia Davis’s book about cows. Keavin calls me on the phone. I’m not in the mood to talk but I know he wants to talk to me about work and politics, so I ask and he tells me. It’s always about choice: what happens and what doesn’t. I am a fool for plot. Later, I curl up with a Helen Oyeyemi book. The plot is aimless but sharp like a needle in the hands of someone who knows what it is they don’t want to make: two characters killing each other over and over again. Wednesday: By 02:30 in the afternoon, I am convinced there will be no big reveal re: the music videos. We’ll never know what really happened or it won’t be told to us. We are left to infer. Like all true love stories, it isn’t enough. Tuesday: It was so bad I don’t want to talk about it. Monday: After dinner, we laugh and laugh and laugh about zodiac signs and compatibility, reading aloud from what we’ve Googled and pretending we’re skeptics. When we pause, our stomachs ache. When the descriptions hit our situations and personalities spot-on, we swoon. We feel invented. Sunday: I am at work.