Jan 01, 2005 00:01
He sits in his room, silent but for the irregular stirrings of the central air. His room is a mess, simply because it's always a mess, but something about it rather bothers him tonight. His sister just got engaged, not two minutes ago- it'd been his idea that his sister's boyfriend give her the ring at midnight, "since they'd be snogging anyway." In the same thought, he considers a friend of his, who may be off doing various messy things with her boyfriend; while several possibilities roam through his head, most of which make him feel physically ill, he realizes it's probably nowhere near what he's thinking about, as she is flighty and social, and he is boring and hopeless.
He's talked to two people today, and neither for very long- one person out living in Arizona, and one leaving in mere hours for a trip to the Carribean. He won't be seeing either of them for a good deal of time. He can feel, like a vibrant, pulsing force, his distance from the rest of the world, the painful isolation that makes him wonder, am I getting better or worse? Most things make no sense to him anymore, and he wonders if he has finally fallen off the edge. He does not feel lonely, but he does feel alone, and he wonders at that, too.
He sits in his room, and rings in the new year in solitude. He has nobody to talk to, nothing to do, he is exhausted from lack of sleep, and the power drill headache is back. By himself, he reads until the year breaks, then resigns himself to his usual introspection. He receives no kiss, no calls. He makes no New Year's resolution. He looks at the diminishing pink scar on the back of his hand, the one he gave himself. He smiles.
"This is going to be a great year," he says aloud. He means it.
Happy Fucking New Year,
From all of me
To all of you.