Guiraut de Bornelh, the very real perspective of the third wheel in an affair of courtly love.
I am sick with my numbers and essay, sick with my stress and the tail-end of my illness, sick of my myself, and sick with/of love.
I ventured into the National Gallery today, the site of our first date. I was determined to get him a New Year’s present – I propelled myself, or was propelled, a mixture of the two. A lovely Belgian girl arranged the gift membership for me, and for him. He should have a message come to him on the 31st of the month with information on how to activate his card. But the voucher was given to me.
And so I asked, might I come by to drop it off? I got no answer, which is odd, as he normally answers quickly. But then, he left my last message, after I helped him and he withdrew from my society’s cabaret, unanswered.
I am vaguely wondering if I, to whom he said he wished to remain friends, who still follows me on Instagram, have had my number blocked.
But I wasn’t wondering it then. I went to campus, I did some data processing. I despaired, I lunched, I did more data processing and despairing. Do I cave tomorrow and ask for an extension? Perhaps I do. I have had a few weeks of the infernal.
“I’d tell them put me back in it! Dah-ah, dah-arling, I would do it again
Dah-ah, dah-ah,
If I could hold you for a minute, dah-ah, dah-arling, I’d go through it again!…”
Or something like that, Andrew Hozier Byrne. Wherefore?
I really wouldn’t. Give me back my life. Sure, give me joy, and then give me back my life. I was quiet, flagrant, irreverent, beautiful, carefree, confident. I don’t need to lie broken in my bed, or sneak up the stairwell of your apartment block, past boys smoking in the doorway, speaking a Slavic language I don’t understand, to have the opportunity to post your pass to all the art you ever loved, 3 crystals and a fossil, contained in an art envelope, kindly taken from me by some gorgeous Eastern European girl who opened the door, as I thought “Oh gosh, it’s his flatmate, I’m done for”. I was wearing cargo pants and a dirty coat. I felt sexless, interestless, degraded. Let me at least go the way I came, quietly. Like I had never been there. Like a fairy. And you – you were inside! You were probably laughing and joking, in English, Russian, or Ukrainian. I don’t know what you thought when she gave you the paper with my best cursive on it. I don’t know if you’ll ever say anything.
But I hope you like the exhibitions. I hope you appreciate the rocks – they do belong together, I don’t know why. Feelings. They’re not rational.
I went on the advice of my friend, whom I didn’t tell the full situation to. Ironically, this friend I had told the day before the fateful date “[I will get into a relationship again] when I meet the right person.” Bam!
But my friend did say, in answer to this, to be grateful that it happened. It’s not that he was the wrong person – he was the right person, for a time. I should be happy that I had that moment.
“And if I knew that I was going to die, well I’d be satisfied
Because we shared this moment.”
Oh sweet Stornoway! Oh sweet B—-, God give me patience!
And he said also to let myself feel. Which during exams, I’m trying to refocus my energy, but afterwards, I’ll process. I’ll write poetry, I’ll make music, I’ll translate another play.
I’ll live, by Jove.
At Least Afloat 