[From the Diaries]
So deeply uninterested.
Nothing feels exciting. Nothing feels new. There’s nothing I wake up looking forward to.
I feel alive when I look back at certain roads I’ve taken. But I don’t actually want to walk them again. The nostalgia feels electric. The reality probably wouldn’t.
It’s been this way for a while.
I try to put myself out there. I really do. But there’s this strange empathy that holds me back. A softness. A knowing that I’m not fully available. I reason with myself, tell myself it’s okay, tell myself healing isn’t linear. But I just can’t do it yet.
My therapist once asked me something that stayed with me. He asked if, with every relationship that ends, I feel like I lose a part of myself. Like a part of me dies with them.
I had never thought of it like that.
But I told him every breakup leaves me as a different version of myself. Some versions stronger. Some versions smaller. Some empowered. Some feeling less.
The only connection I’ve felt lately was one that promised permanency almost instantly. The minute I responded, it felt solid. And because it felt so easy, I thought it wouldn’t be so hard to feel that way again.
But it is.
Nothing sparks. Nothing shines. Nothing ignites that reckless fire in my soul.
And that’s why I keep looking back.
The most alive I’ve ever felt were the times I was doing something I probably shouldn’t have been doing.
I remember setting a time and waiting. Wondering if they’d show up. Wondering if they’d be early. Or late. Or not come at all.
One of them always showed up on time. The other barely did, and when he did, he was always late.
Maybe they’ll always be my favorite mistakes.
They were similar in the way they made me feel. But one reciprocated it more. It felt mutual. Like we were both burning at the same temperature. There was no escaping it.
June 2019.
A time I sometimes wish I could relive.
From a distance it feels perfect. Cinematic. Glowing. But it wasn’t. It was complicated. It was wrong in ways that should have made me ashamed. But I wasn’t ashamed.
Because I wasn’t demanding anything. I wasn’t pushing for more. I was just existing in it. Going with the flow. Letting it be what it was.
And he made me feel alive again.
That’s the dangerous part.
I’m starting to realize I might have a type. Smart. Corporate. A little reserved. Slightly intense. The quiet kind who surprises you with how deeply they think.
Short. Slim. Controlled.
Age doesn’t matter.
What matters is how they make me feel.
And right now, nothing does.
She Was Sea 