Soy milk

I just finished the call with my friend, with whom I am working on exploring her emotions and their effect on me. I am completely overwhelmed and struggling to control what I feel.

I start walking toward the bathroom. I stop. I look around. It’s time for lunch. I should go to the kitchen and prepare something to eat. In the last few days, when I’ve had lunch, I’ve started experiencing severe intestinal pain. I don’t think I could digest what I ate. I think I might not eat at all. I could avoid it. But I feel very weak. I need to try to eat something.

Images of the call. Blurry images. I hear painting. I hear painting. I don’t control the painting. It makes its own space. 

I could prepare some chicken with peas and nothing else. But I don’t think I would digest it. I can try with some soy milk and a bit of coffee. I go down the stairs. My hand is shaking. I struggle to take the steps. I hold onto the wall with one hand. I feel the rough wall sliding under my hand. I have reached the last step. I stumble. My hand shakes. It’s my left hand. I prepare the coffee maker. I cleaned it. I fill it with coffee. I smell the coffee. I struggle to close it. In the meantime, I put the cup with soy milk in the microwave. My left hand continues to shake. I feel cold. My hands are cold. But the rest of my body is cold too.

I take the Mac and start writing these lines in a rush. I don’t think I’ll have the courage to reread them. I write each character with difficulty, but I hope it helps me empty this feeling. I keep telling myself that I know I should avoid it. I know I should avoid stimulating the art part in this way. I hear it speaking in my head. I see its face moving and talking. I hear its voice and feel the words.

Now I start to empty the cold and the trembling. I breathe more calmly. I feel tired. I feel as if I have been running for a long time. Although, in reality, I no longer know what it truly feels like. I haven’t run in a while. I feel my head spinning. I no longer feel cold.

I am sitting at the kitchen table. The Mac is in front of me. The cup with soy milk and coffee. The taste is terrible. The soy milk is terrible. But at least I should be able to digest it.

Giving a friend what has been written about her is exhausting. It’s part of the creative process. I don’t want to write for myself. I don’t want to create for myself. I want to tell my story. I want to show others who I am and what I feel. And it’s devastating. The time it took her to read it felt endless. It just wouldn’t end. I didn’t give it to her before the call because I wanted to endure it. I wanted to experience it. Masochism. I endured it all. I felt bad. I will always feel bad. I hope to always feel bad because it means that I feel something. When I no longer feel bad, it will mean that I have drained what I feel.

But I feel bad. And it’s strangely wonderful. I feel something. The room is empty, but I look at it with an emotion inside. I think that those who say there are no negative or positive emotions are right. Maybe not. But at this moment, I prefer this disgusting pain to yesterday's apathy.

I think I could become dependent on it. I think I already am. I believe that dependency is only controlled because I’m learning the rules of this relationship and I know when the next dose will come.

I don’t know what the pleasure is due to. I think someone reading this might know. I don’t know at this moment. I only know that I’m writing spontaneously without thinking. It took years to learn to write this way. I thank that bastard of a coach who helped me. I hate all of this. I hate what I feel. I hate the oscillation of these emotions.

I am aware that these calls are something that fills me, which I must immediately empty afterward. 

I can’t, however, explain well what it is or where all of this comes from. I know that she has stayed in my mind. I know she has her own space. I know that seeing her stimulates what’s inside me. I know that I paint while she speaks. I know that these are emotions that intensify. It’s not about the content. It’s about the time, the sharing, the feeling of seeing my identity reflected back. The screen becomes a mirror. I look at her, I look at myself.

I took off my glasses. I couldn’t look at her. Especially while I was talking about myself. She asked me why not a book or a man to feel these emotions. In a book, there’s a lack of the feeling of something alive. Life in front of and around me is uncontrollable. I act, and I don’t know what might happen. I do everything to try to control what could happen, but it might be that I can’t. I think that’s the beauty of performing on stage or playing live. I played guitar in a punk band for a while. I felt something similar on stage. I know what I’m doing. I should know it. But I don’t know what will happen.

It happened that someone threw me off the stage. I fell onto a girl. I landed directly in her arms. I tried to get back up. Meanwhile, my singer was pushed against the wall. He’s bleeding. He bleeds even more. The blood spreads on the wall. In the meantime, I got back on stage. I looked for the guitar jack. I started playing again. But my singer was lost. People were beating him in the crowd.

Now I’ve come down from the stage. I’m having trouble looking at the screen. My eyes are burning. I’m tired. I keep writing without stopping. I’ve wanted to do this for years. I don’t know what it’s for. But I feel a bit more alive than I did this morning. I can say that. As for the rest, I don’t know.

The hand is warm. The body does not tremble.

I don’t think I could do the same with men. No. I don’t think I could feel this way. Only with some women. And always with the feeling of having the possibility to explore undefined spaces. Open spaces. I think there are many factors combined together. With a man, I don’t think it would happen to me. 

With this friend, I think it’s the time we spent together. But not only that. Together, we have gone through a long journey. I helped her find her own path. I was the one who listened. As I write 'listened', I realize that maybe that’s where the key lies. Everything I have listened to from her is now part of me. The interesting thing is that what I listened to from her, found space within me. And it did so from a very intimate perspective.

She apologized for making me feel bad. I felt bad. I don’t know if it did me any good at all. I don’t know what would have remained of those moments in my memory if I hadn’t subsequently had a tumor. I don’t know how others that I have within me, mature depending on how or where I experienced those moments. I don’t know how what happened influences me. It influences who I am as a person. 

If this were true, I still don’t know how this continuation of the relationship will affect me. I’ve been writing for twenty minutes without stopping. The last time it happened was after the last call with her. I think it will influence me. After all, it’s as if I were doing extreme sports. 

Probably, for me, this is a kind of extreme sport. And just like those who experience strong emotions with those sports, I imagine a dependency will develop for me as well. 

I assume it has already begun. It makes me laugh to think that I could ask Red Bull for sponsorship for what I’m doing. I remind myself to think about writing to someone to see if they’re interested. If this isn’t extreme sports… 

Meanwhile, the soy milk remains cold in the cup. Just the thought of drinking it disgusts me. But as soon as I stop, I have to heat it up. I have to heat it up and find the courage to drink it. I have a headache. My head is spinning.

Now I would like to lie down. I should go to the supermarket and work. But I doubt I can do it. My head is spinning.

For now, I’ll stop because I’m satisfied with this. I wouldn’t want to discover more. I believe that for today I have done enough to condemn my soul.