every little thing

I don’t know if it’s the winter blues, or if it’s this baseline level of feeling mellow that I’m not exactly used to. Chat GPT says that when your nervous system starts to regulate again, memories and feelings surface and demand to be felt.

“I love this line.” My friend texts me. I just lent her my copy of Open Water:

“Every time you remember something, the memory weakens, as you’re remembering the last recollection, rather than the memory itself. Nothing can remain intact. Still, it does not stop you wanting, does not stop you longing.”

“I’m excited to see how it ends.” She continues. “Or maybe it doesn’t end…maybe there’s no conclusion…”

-

The energy of the past two days feels heavy on me. I haven’t felt this way in a long time, and I make myself laugh when I say “I am just having a human experience in this human body.” Because that implies that I don’t often think of myself as a human being.

The morning after my pregnancy dream, I am at work. I am wearing my new Barbie pink Ganni winter boots (gifted to me by a friend), and I am enjoying an easy Sunday. I’ve made myself and my co-worker a French Press. A mother walks in with her young daughter and they browse the rows of nail polishes together.

“It’s her first communion.” The mother tells me. “We’re picking out a colour for her nails.”

The little girl keeps peeking out from behind her mother’s legs and staring at my boots.

“I have the perfect one.” I pick out an iridescent white called “Fairy” and hand it to the daughter. Her face lights up.

“She loves it. It’s beautiful.” Her mom tells me. Both of them are smiling. I’m emotional.

See? I would make a good mother.

-

“I think why that night stuck with me as much as it did - was because I wanted to feel chosen. And I hate myself for saying that. Because it feeds in to the patriarchy and the male gaze and men having that power and all of that bullshit. But I think I just wanted him to see that I could be a mother. For him to want me to be a mother.”

-

I force myself to take a walk to the grocery store after work. It’s minus ten, but I need some sort of movement. I need to feel something. I pick up a container of tzatziki. I tempt fate by walking by his apartment on the way home. His lights are on, but the curtains are drawn.

Maybe it doesn’t end. Maybe there’s no conclusion.

My lips start to feel numb at the street corner. My hands are red. My scarf is bundled up to my ears and I find myself staring through everyone and everything instead of at them.

There’s an apartment for rent in Rome that is right beside my favourite pizza place. I don’t know how to afford it, unless I immediately land a job in Rome. Technically, I could figure out a way.

I would figure out a way.

I always figure out a way.