Journal Entry 7: burnt coffee

This stranger is running his hands down my body. Over all the lumps, this grubby fingers are enough to make me want to crawl out of my own skin. The room is dark, cold and decorated with music paraphernalia. I see condoms on the nightstand and he tries to pull me in but this is the moment I realise I can’t stay any longer, so I flee the scene, rushing out with my shirt, bra and jacket in my hands, this still half-naked guy probably shocked but I don’t dare to look back.

It’s cold, so I grab a coffee from a nearby cafe that just opened up. My coffee is burnt. I chug it down because the fatigue is hitting me. The fog hangs low in the air.

He lights up a ciggie and offers me a puff. I do so, only because it’s been years since I’ve even touched a cigarette. It burns my throat and I know it’s not supposed to. I know I’m not supposed to be having a ciggie but I do it anyway. It’s early in the morning and I’m tired. I should be sleeping. Why on earth am I even here?

We were on the Great Ocean road, I can’t exactly remember where but we stopped to enjoy the big rock formations out in the middle of the vast sea. High on love, back when things were a lot more simple. A year of fighting, fucking and falling in-and-out of love with each other.

I’m pacing around the store looking at the baby items wondering why on earth we have organic clothes for babies? Is there even really a difference? Of course there is. Everything in society is divided so members of different classes can access different things. You’re broke? Just send your kid to a public school. You’re rich? Send them to private schools only. Private tutoring won’t be a problem because you’ve got the cash to spend on whatever you want. If you’re broke, just make your kid take public transport, doesn’t matter if there’s crazies or racists on the trains or trams. If you’re rich, just take your kid to school in your Tesla, make sure it’s on autopilot though so you can have your fancy almond croissant and sip on your cappuccino.

I’m in the hospital on a gurney, it’s cold and I remain cold for quite sometime. Everything is clinical, sanitised, white. They wheel me to the opposite side of the hospital before they slice into my legs, leaving me in excruciating pain for the next two weeks. Who cares about drug-dependency, we need to shut this patient up so let’s just shove some painkillers her way.

Even if I’m physically here, I’m absent. I’m somewhere else. We are somewhere else. I’m thinking of her and you and us. All of us.

I attempt reading The Second Sex again by de Beauvoir. I’m reading aloud so maybe she can learn to recognise my voice.

I tell you all the time how much I want to leave. Leave, out of the city. Leave this place.

Let’s just drive. To someplace else.

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