Why must we do things that are bad for us?

Why give into such activities that grind away at our souls? Each day I feel my body dying just a little bit. Thankfully, I am at an age still where my body heals itself over and over generating new cells, shedding old ones. But I am still killing myself.

Warm whisky burns its way down my throat and settles uneasily in my stomach, but I drink it in deeply like it is meant to be there. I fill my lungs, inhaling like modern-day healers tell me when they whisper, “breathe,” into my ear. So I breathe it like it is a promise, a secret. Even now, I crave the sweet taste of tobacco as it creates a temporary home in my body.

I crave the touch of a man, a woman. Someone to occupy my body, my mind for if only a moment. To feel connected to someone on, I dare say, a spiritual level. To lay, naked with another if only for a night.

Yet, I pass up on every opportunity that is presented. Maybe because a part of me believes that eating and breathing and fucking are all immoral things. What am I to talk about immortality? I do not even believe in such things, or so I say. But indulgence is something I have been taught to loathe. Yet I do it anyway. The breathing and eating parts of it.

I long to feel full again, to be whole, to be complete. Must I always seek wholeness in something or someone other than myself? I cannot continue to live like this. How can anyone live like this?

A few months ago, I tried to kill myself. As you can see, it was quite a failure. Of which I am grateful for. I wish I could bring myself to write about it. Or write about anything, but a part of me cannot bring myself to do so. To open up myself to the world naked, afraid of everything that could happen. Afraid of my thoughts being laid bare in my eyes. My eyes give everything away.

There comes a point where people expect you to be alright again, to have moved on from the past. And so you find yourself beginning to pretend that everything is alright again. And I guess sometimes it is, but it stays with you.

I fear to give details. And maybe that is because I feel I have become a person here. And with that, I have the fear of rejection. Something I must work to get over.

Let me go back to the whisky.

How it settles in my stomach that isn’t quite ready to accept its warmth, but the hints of orange and cherry taste so sweet against the mild burn. My fingers play with the straw as I softly, respectively push the orange slice down to the bottle of the teal, plastic cup. With each stroke, the orange bobs its way back to the surface.

Here, I could add in a metaphor about being in the life of the orange and how each time forces unknown to itself sinks it under the surface it begins to drown. But continues to find its way back above water. Though I suppose that is just the nature of the orange and its buoyancy. And I must remember that it is only an orange in a glass full of whishky.

On the wall across the table, there is a menu, words written in large writing so they can be seen from all across the room.

I want to note here that I am being rather descriptive to a point where the words seem obvious but bear with me.

On the bottom of the chalkboard, there are beautiful drawings. One of a small island with waves crashing onto the shore. Another of an animal who looks very happy, though I cannot recall what animal it is.

Then there are the people. The restaurant bustles about in a lively manner. People smiling and laughing. Much too investing in my own conversation to hear of the others happening around me.

Someone is dancing outside. He seems very happy, the longing I feel to be free enough to dance outside while people watch. The lack of trust I have in my ability and the fear of rejection or judgment in people as they would pass by. Even now, it is still hard for me to dance on my own.

There is a man at the restaurant that approaches us. He inquires about what drew our attention outside. I allowed myself curiosity of this young man. Dark-haired with bandages over his nose and across his cheek. He seemed rather forward, yet keenly aware and intelligent. It felt nice to be respectfully watched, and I encouraged him to do so.

Though in close proximity, words fail me. Getting close to someone scares me. Even with the knowledge that I will not be in the area long, I have an intense fear of getting close to someone. All while with the knowledge that my mind, body, and soul are in dire need of human connection. What do I do? Why do I let my fears dictate my every action?

With COVID, I find that it is easier to give into these fears. There is a pandemic going on and for the safety of yourself and others, it is important to wear a mask and stay at least six feet away from everyone. Of which I do agree and think is important. But I need a connection. I need something. At least that is how I feel. Right now, it is important to learn self-sufficiency and be okay with being alone but is so hard when you have been alone for so long. As I am sure many others feel a similar way. Many others have been alone for much longer than myself.

I suppose I do not know what to do, but then again, maybe there is nothing to do. Maybe I have to just be. Be here, be present. It feels harder to do with each passing day, but there are ways to pass the time. Work to do and things to throw myself into.

I feel sleep calling for me. So I will bid you farewell.

Thank you for reading,

Keira Waters



mostly writing about my thoughts and experiences

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