I am quite unique in that although I am in a colorful but troubled and tumultuous profession: ONE which is quick to render further injury to the Achilles' heels of THE emotionally fragile (semantics overkill if I am able to say something about this statement), I also STRONGLY feel the lingering effects of no strings-attached and yet romance-involved encounters. I mean there will always be strings attached to any encounter between two human beings looking to connect whether short or long-term, e.g courting, drinks, even money if that makes sense.
Honestly I also do experience these romance hangovers. Like a small load that's in my handbag or a monkey on my shoulder, to exemplify one of those Murakami fictional characters, which is unwanted, unnecessary but sticks to me like blood clots on the skin. There is a concerted effort from all the sensory powers-that-be to remove it, to extract it, fumigate my brain to remove it and yet it persists, existing and even growing like mildew, moss in wet places.
Thoughts of the experience, his body, the sounds of his words, the initial awkwardness and shyness in the beginning, topics that make no sense but make sense initially, the effort to find a common ground for conversation, then the smooth transition towards physical contact, eye to eye, touching with the hands, skin to skin, then ardent kisses, the rest following like protocol and yet spontaneous and non-robotic.... all this normally I place inside a capsule which I try to deposit in some forlorn and forgettable chamber in my mind...
But it becomes fatal when I misplace that capsule, that misshapen, allegorical egg case containing the molecular events that transpired. When I accidentally place it at a certain part in a lobe where the synapses are at their busiest, where the neurons hit each other at every nanosecond, where the impulses are at their busiest... so that every time I try to turn away from the event, it hits me anew that it was true, it really happened, and it was special despite my constantly denying it.
I begin to question. What was so specifically special about him? Was it his voice, the nuances brought about by tone and vocal condition? A laugh here, a serious tone there? Did he have a cold that day or does he always sound like that on his normal days? Was it his face, the subtle distribution of bumps, pimples, one spot oily, the other spot totally dry, the shape of his lips, the Chinky eyes, the imperfect but beautifully acceptable nose? I try to pinpoint something somewhere so that if I am able to find something I might concentrate on exterminating and forgetting it like a hired hand fumigating a termite-infested wooden closet.....
In hopelessness I surrender. It really is true, the pounding, the dryness of thought, the disconcerted feeling brought about by the emotional deluge of that singular experience. Like vodka flooding my system and dehydrating me, so this nagging, persistent feeling drowns me and disrupts my mental oxygen supply.
Talking, going out with friends, trying to interact and mingle among people who are jovial and less emotionally connected with me doesn't help. I could easily laugh with them and try to be as cerebral as I can be with our conversations but still when things settle down, when I am alone in my thoughts, the discombobulation returns, the hangover returns and I am left inept and restless, a riddle waiting to be solved, an oxymoron waiting to be dissected into words that coincide and make sense...
Should I take the easiest route for me? Immerse myself in the addiction that is men, men and more men to occupy my physical and mental faculties? Indulge so that the wonderful forgetfulness of the different faces and bodies envelop me to the point of suffocation, thereby rendering the hangover incapable of debilitating my thoughts any further? Like an antibody to combat a deadly virus, paracetamol to lessen the pain....
I can overcome this.
Oh but I shouldn't...
Oh I should...
Sharing can be therapeutic...
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