Dinkaltranen

Being a drunk is pretty fun. Even more fun if you’re a smart drunk, but thankfully I’m not a drunk, or at least drunk yet. I just have a penchant for benders and feeling like a detective.

Wake up. Reach over for my drink, take a swig. Surface is still cold. Can’t have been that long since I went to sleep, maybe 2 or 3 hours? Faintly growing light peeking around the blinds tells me it’s maybe 5 at the latest.

Check phone. Sense of pride. 4:30. Did I trash the place? About a one in ten chance I did, and my arms aren’t sore, so I guess I didn’t. Trying to figure out if my dreams are real. Running down the bike path in the rain, stark naked. Diving into the surf and hitting my head on a sandbar right by the shore. Calling my ex and telling her I loved her, that I can’t live without her, that every day since she’s been gone has been dull and grey and makes me want to simultaneously slit my wrists and jump in front of a train.

Nope. Underwear intact, no calls in my phone. She blocked me, like someone with any sense would. Seven missed calls from a registered sex offender who probably thinks I got shot in the altercation that happened yesterday when I was meant to get home, when really I didn’t call them because I don’t have the heart to do anything right now, let alone talk to someone who’s beyond forgiveness.

Check my computer. Last thing, some joke youtube video, is at 12:30. Discord shows some messages up and out until around 2, but thankfully it’s nothing serious. Some pictures – oh, I guess I did go to the beach, but I’m wearing clothes. Some friendly comments, but no declarations of undying love or suicidal despair. Not today at least. My faux image, my mask, remains intact.

I’m thinking about the friends who are meant to be here, only to flake on me for an event that itself fell through for being flaked. I don’t even smoke, but I want to, simply for the aesthetic of it. Tragic, suffering, starving artist and all that. Maybe I’ll sit on a street corner and some lonely woman will adopt me. Worked out for me in the past.

This place is a dump. I wouldn’t pay to spend the night here, and if I did it’d be for the beach, but I really don’t care about the beach.

Ooh! Salty water, sand, and skin cancer! We have that back in the city too. It’s called a pool and still probably less people piss in it.

The isolation is nice, though. The quiet isolation that happens at 2 or 3 am when no one is awake, not even the retards hosting house parties on a weekday, no birds, nothing. You can walk down to the beach and it’s an alien world. It’s like it’s there just for you. Try to ignore the trash, beer cans, the crayfish nets that’ve been illegally cast. But it’s for you. This little stretch of freedom just 300 meters from your house, that you can access at any time between the hours of 1 and 5.

I appreciate the isolation. I love being alone. And I don’t mean in the starving artist way I mentioned before. I don’t think it’s out of defence, either, like if I have nothing then I cannot lose anything. It’s just because I haven’t been left alone for much of my life, even if I tried. So being able to find somewhere I could be alone unconditionally has been a large goal of my life. Some empty fucking farmland where I could build a house and do whatever I want while attending to my responsibilities. But if they ever got too much, too overwhelming, there would be a place for me on that land where I could go for just a little bit and experience that, that emptiness, and go, yup, things are alright because I have this place.

I’m horribly lonely. I’m hiding it pretty well, but I am terribly, horrifically lonely.

I go out of my way to organise stuff for friends, TTRPGS, holidays, events together, events that are really fun. Despite me not really super wanting these things, I want others to have fun. Because then they might ask me about me, and they might tell me what’s going on with them, and we might have a deep and meaningful conversation, and then I’ll probably realise “Oh, actually, this person doesn’t get me, this person will never get me at all, there will never be anyone else in my life who understands” and I will never talk to them again. Because I sunk all this time and effort into someone who I cannot connect to, with someone I desperately wanted to connect to.

But no. I’m alone. And I know that this entry doesn’t make me seem that deep, “Oh wow, the city kid craves for the farmlands! Wait until he has to get up at 5am everyday!”

But it’s obviously not just that. I feel done with myself, done with people. They always let me down and so do I. Sometimes I think about my old plan of buying a van or living in my car, changing my name, and never coming back again until I’m ready. I don’t really care anymore if people rip their hair out thinking I finally killed myself. What do I owe them?

Lots. The honest answer is lots. It would be running away. I think I’d get bored of being an actual alcoholic instead of being someone who is just a little worried about being an alcoholic. I think that’d be a bit sick. I’ve spent a lot of my life suffering where no one could see it, or the people who could see it and had a responsibility to it just simply didn’t care. But I don’t think I hate myself enough to do that to myself willingly anymore.

I’m listening to what my head says, and writing it down, but my body… feels nothing. I am listening and transcribing like one of those court transcribers. Guess that’s how I know I’m dissociating, huh.

More when I am back from holiday.