I am restless spirit of vagabond indecision. I am a February fog, hanging in the crisp morning air like a lover an invitation of coffee and toast. I am the existential absurdity of frantic disorientation, clutching at everything and finding meaning in little. In the search for essence I found frustration and madness. In madness I found meaning and in meaning I found an empty space.
I used to wonder if it was okay to not know what it was that I wanted. More often than that, I wondered whether I would ever truly want anything completely and absolutely. Fiercely. Wholeheartedly. Savagely. Would I ever desire something real or would I forever fall for the allure of that which was Unknown? The notion of the Unknown was scary and uncomfortable and arousing. It was as though I was being led through a labyrinth, blindfolded, stumbling, taunted forward by swindling nymphs whispering promises of gluttonous bites from whatever it was that I fancied from the Tree of Life.
A lover once told me that if I were an entry in a dictionary it would simply read: ? He wasn’t to know that as I lay there with my head on his chest, a tender hand resting on my thigh, that my hunger for wandering was more carnal than that for him.
I am not wrong in the mind. I am restless. I am in a permanent state of unconscious osmosis towards the Unknown – – it is the cut on the roof of my mouth that might just heal if I stopped tonguing it for long enough. But as soon as the the wound starts to heal over and my mind softly consoles me with promises of this time, you’ll be better I find I can’t keep still for just one fucking second and I am half way out the door before I notice our hands have slowly stopped touching.
I would spend my evenings writing short stories about the beauty of his imperfections. I would gaze upon them for hours when they belonged to me and my eyes alone, first with gluttony, then with contempt and finally with indifference. He would give them to someone else to adore and I would write sorrowful poetry for the times when bleeding from my skin would just not do. I was a self-indulgent elixir of narcissism and nihilism, trickling my poison down his throat as he lingered on my lips.
It wasn’t until lately that I realised I cannot love him. I cannot love him because I am a narcissist. The devil quality we each possess and suppress and which despite myself seeps itself into the most sacred of my personal relationships. With an attention span leaving much to be desired, my feet itch and boredom creeps upon me and whispers with perverse satisfaction: told you so. I entertain myself in the period between boredom and break-up with power plays and finding ephemeral gratification in strangers and searching for answers in red wine.
I wrote poetry about him not because his taste of cinnamon and cigarette smoke would look lovely on paper but because I wanted to bleed myself into feeling. I worshipped the way he bled from my pen and from my skin not because I loved him but because I loved being able to fucking feel something for the first time. I loved it because I am a narcissist and for that, I am sorry.
Sophie Elizabeth Moss is a second year undergraduate at the Cardiff school of Journalism, Media and Cultural Studies, a faculty of Cardiff University. When not searching for the perfect leather jacket, she can be found wincing the night away in a quiet corner of the English countryside, penning gritty horror novels of grandeur supernatural splendour and nurturing a dysfunctional relationship with her out-of-tune bass guitar and misanthropic pendulum. Disillusioned with societal expectations of the ‘modern woman’, she is a pro-choice, body positivity supporter and is haunted by the ghost of Simone de Beauvoir. @Sophiedelays