I'm pacing again. There's only so many distractions that could help me put this off, but my work day was abysmal. There's packing that I could be doing, preparation for Sun Day, unfinished weaving projects to catch up on, a sister to find, but my mind keeps going back to a man.
It's not even for butterflies-in-the-stomach reasons either; I'm overwhelmed with dread at the fact that I felt this was necessary at all. Mem having to practically spell out that Sinclair was flirting with me put me in a worrisome spot: had I been flirting back without meaning to? I remember feeling fond of him at the archaeology show, and it's not like I've ever disliked him. The earnestness of an outsider to Neweman culture becoming an expert on it has been the annoying part, but the man behind it is harmless. Sinclair is, as my friends have been saying lately, Genuinely Good. By no fault of his own though, I kept him distant for all these years.
...No. I kept myself distant.
And being genuinely good, and somebody I've known for a very long time, a somewhat challenging conversation shouldn't be an issue. Still, I'm pacing around something. I have my hands up against something, and I'm beating my fists against something that's been looming around me protectively for as long as I can remember; defenses I've learned to put up with to keep from messy things like... wants. Now I've gone and confused myself into a corner. If I have been accidentally flirting, does that mean I unconsciously do like him?
I stop and press my hands to my eyes. Breathe in. Organize the facts: Sinclair and I are friends. He wants to be with me. A nagging whisper stirs in my brain: does he really, in a way that matters? It's a question that doesn't require an answer, because I'm not intending on any moves anyway. He is attractive and charming, in a way that always felt unattainable. When I try to split the difference between these facts versus how I'm feeling, it all gets too murky. It's almost like there's just...
Something.
absurd, horrified
Old emotions crash into riptides of memory and I need to fight against the current. I don't want to think about any of this again, or remember, or try to feel through things that have been long resolved, but something is demanding attention. I'm longing for the days when it seemed like this shit was easier to do, when I could just shut off parts of me quicker and put on whichever role I needed for the moment.
It feels like a cassette that's starting to get a little worn out. I keep hitting play, pause, fast forward, rewind, stop. Fast forward. Stop. Play. After a while, I lose control over which old wounds resurface. I need to let the tape roll.
▶ -- It's easier this way -- ⏩︎
I thought I was past all of that -- ⏪︎︎
Nykhia says it could have also been any port in a storm. Hearing that hurts in a uniquely terrible way that I can’t pinpoint right away; it’s the fucking talk again from last night. Why is that coming up now?--
I get a little sloshed and at one point, in the last round, Mem asks me why I get so uncomfortable when I get dressed up. I -- ⏸stop fooling myself -- ▶can't look at that --
⏸ stop --
what else would I be? -- I know the answer, I've always known it--⏪︎
-- and I freeze -- ⏩︎
-- these strangers could be my friends, for real -- ⏩︎
--Did I say yes? Did I say anything at all? -- ⏪︎
-- there's something big happening -- ⏸I'm so tired.⏪︎
-- I feel like I should probably go home. -- ⏹ Tired! I'm sick and tired of it!