(All pictures belong to @textsfromyourexistentialist)
Yesterday he went to bed with a dissatisfaction long ago self-diagnosed as chronic, upon hearing the term during a cathartic encounter with Woody Allen’s Vicky Cristina Barcelona that left his eyes dry for hours.
He laid on the window side of his king-size bed and read some pages from a novel that seemed amusing. But at some point, he realized that he couldn’t be bothered to learn about the upbringing of a poor guy in the streets of a neglected city. Not today at least. So, he switched off the lights and faked sleeping.
However, his eyes were moving behind his lids, rejecting the idea of a day finishing in such an unfulfilling way. “Why do I always sleep on the window side of the bed? Why have I pick a side?”. He went on to ask himself why there were even sides on his bed, when he had no one to share it with. And then he felt it coming again, a recurring motif throughout his life: the grip of society sneaking into his consciousness like the ocean into the river in high tide.
His will was flooded with alien narratives, that informed his ambitions and secret hopes in ways unknown to him. They were planted down deep in his mind, and, he was only to discover them when they blossomed after the caress of blue Sunday nights such as tonight.
What was he to do? He used to patrol the confines of his consciousness with a zeal that would make the European border police jealous. And yet, the feeling of being incomplete by himself would plunder past his walls, storming everything to the last standing vestige of lucidity.
When those episodes occurred –and they were all but infrequent–, he would imagine his last one-night stand and him marrying and moving to a newly bought house where a café au lait golden retriever would await them every night. Or, should no one-night stand be available, he would monitor Instagram in quest for potential partners to depict an artificial perfect life with, forgetting about the deluding logic that social media was based upon.
That was the story of how chronic dissatisfaction met chronic delusion. He engaged in tempestuous relationships with a fake persona built on unreal aspirations. He projected all his hopes into the new partner, burdening him with expectations and obscuring his actual self. But of course, the castle in the air was meant to collapse. The fight was never an equal one, between the partners, but rather a clash of illusion and reality. It was a war in his mind until he finally woke up from his daydream, when it couldn’t stand any longer. It wasn’t Mr. Perfect and a golden retriever on the other side of the bed, but an actual human. And the human, was at this point very tired of knocking at the door and finding that due to civil war no one would show up to open. The human tended to leave.
And so, life continued in the same way the fight between him and his misleading brain did. Alone or accompanied, he would always feel lonely on the window side of his bed. Unless loneliness was countered with fantasy and fake golden retrievers, but that San Junípero kind of life was not what he was looking for, was it?
His bed was getting warmer now, after some minutes of reflection. He still felt lonely, but the blindfold had been removed. And that felt better, even if loneliness wasn’t less painful. He took a revolutionary decision then. He issued a decree abolishing the existence of sides on his bed. He wished himself good night, and started to roll under the sheets until he felt off bed laughing like a madman. That night, he had a great sleep.