A recent conversation with P talking about rings and their significance had me recall: I had a ring too, once. I used to wear it on my right hand because I didn’t like wearing accessories on my left. I’ve never told anyone, but I wore that ring for a very long time, even after the breakup, and I also remember how my finger developed a tan line from wearing that ring.
The thing is, to me, the bad stuff is just…well, bad. And I can handle the bad things, you deal with them and you stop dwelling. But the good things, the memories–they haunt, impale, and embed. I don’t know what else they do, but I think they behave like some kind of emotional shrapnel.
But that was just my ring and my promises. And then I wondered why and for what. I don’t remember when, that one day I just decided to wear the ring for one last time and allow myself to be saturated with the horrible good memories. Then I took it off, and I never wore it again. So I guess if we’re going to talk about the significance of rings, then that should be as symbolical as it could possibly get.
I didn’t notice when the un-tanned portion of flesh managed to blend in with the rest of the finger. Call me heartless, but I also don’t remember where the ring is now. I’m a hoarder, hoarders know that the item is in the drawer, somewhere, but they just don’t know where it is, exactly.
I think I’ve mentioned to my friends before; that I am nothing more than a mirror reflecting the aura they present to me. And this is why I need to be with pleasant and happy people; they bring out the best in me. People who are constantly miserable, well, are generally miserable to be with.
I seldom get sinus attacks, but when I do, it is diabolical, and I wake up from pounding headaches. It’s like getting a hangover without the benefits of the alcohol the night before. For a morning person to wake up feeling like crap, is very bad. I know it is a hard day when I realise that I have yet to smile.
I know that also because many years ago when I went through that breakup, I sat down one day and I questioned: when was the last time I felt really happy? And then I couldn’t answer my own thoughts, because I really couldn’t remember. So after a year of pretending that I had it together, I decided that I’d had it with myself, and that my friends had probably had it with my dreadful acting as well, I ran away. And then I came back.
It took me all of one week to come back renewed and happy. Call it a self-discovery trip or whatever, but being truly alone, worked. If anything, I also affirmed that I do make a terrible actress, and came to terms that the film industry was definitely out for me. I summarise my life a lot, details can be heartbreaking for those people who care.
But that was then. Why did I even talk about this.
Oh, sinus attacks. See what happens when you start your days with oppressive headaches and breathing disabilities. It makes you think about and do strange things; such talking about the past, such as discussing deaths with P, and as if it was not depressing enough, I went on and lived through a book about deaths. Reading about protagonists’ dying process made me feel somewhat rude for intruding.
The point is I need to stop radiating misery over a book, and over my headache. I need some time to rearrange myself and constellate my scattered thoughts.
And sometime in between my constellation, there’s a bottle of vodka that I need to finish up; E wants a vodka bottle as a water bottle to drink from at work.
So let me raise my glasses and lift my spirits! Literally and figuratively! And maybe I’ll paint better; I mean that’s what artists do, right? They drink and then they get inspired.
Gosh. I’m going to read a chicklit. No more dying now, ok?!