A soft destruction

Updated on Apr 21, 2016
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Why can’t life be like a movie; a beautiful costume drama with endless green gardens and the most overwhelming sunsets. With a whirlwind of events, gorgeous gentlemen and endless running around in the English countryside leading up to one mere thing: to find happiness -against all odds- in the arms of the average imperfect perfect Sir Bumblewood.

I’ve been doing a lot of running lately and not in the sense of soul-searching through the English woods and finding myself while chasing sheep. More the running away and hiding under the covers kind. I ran away from work and the most horrible boss in the history of psychopathic bosses. I ran away from love. I ran away from all that was making my head and heart feel worse every day. And, against all expectations, I do not feel better. On the contrary.
I find myself stuck in a routine of sitting through useless job interviews, throwing my own bedroom pity parties and waiting around for even more useless Sir Bumblewood’s to finally get their fingers to text back while nervously sipping my way through bottles of wine; I feel like I would’ve preferred to live in the day and age of Jane Austen where love consisted of a staring contest until the gentleman was brave enough to propose instead of having to live through the uncertainty of texting-technology, the complexity of human relations of this generation and the more than unpleasant walk home after a less than fun night. It is incredibly exhausting to say the least.

I find myself stuck, trying to run away from myself faster every day only because the truth of having failed so many things at once is too much to bear. I find myself stuck in a cycle of trying to feel loved by the misery that is the opposite gender and feeling numb at the same time. I find myself stuck because of other people, because someway or the other, I realized that everyone is running. Away or towards something or someone. Everyone is trying to find a place to lay their head down where no worry, pain or doubt can touch them. Everyone is trying to find their home. And everyone is frustrated.

“Because what if home is not there to be found?”

Right now I am running away but I know that through endless liters of wine, endless late-night conversations with strange men, endless dancing in my underwear to Beyoncé like there’s no tomorrow -hey, no shame in my game, right- and endless mid-night anxiety slash insomnia will get me to run towards something. And maybe that something will be called home.

Until then, I’ll just keep hiding under my covers, watching costume drama’s on repeat and waiting for someone to ask me out dancing like it’s 1875. Oh sir Bumblewood, why can’t life be like a movie?

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