witty-remark's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - I haunt the nearly abandoned theatre near me. I ask them to humour me and layer the butter in my popcorn. I don’t like when you only get the best of something at the surface. The movie is about AI and love and if there’s a need for affect. I consider running what I’m writing right now through chatGPT. Roy Orbison’s “Evergreen” ties the scenes together like a needle rather than an arrow through the heartbreak. The lights in the theatre snap on abruptly and my pupils pulsate like the ringing of a clap beside your ear. Walking back in the dark I’m struck by a pang of grief as my trench coat flutters and slaps against my legs in the wind. I walk through a knot of people, sourly pleased to untangle them. A man apologizes to me for no reason when I catch his eyes. The Bee Gees “Too Much Heaven” softly blares from inside the grocery store. I step inside to hear more of the song trying to catch the lyrics between Barry Gibb’s sharp falsetto. Nobody gets too much love anymore I hold it together just enough to collect my newly arrived vinyl from the concierge. Ive been buying so many I don’t even remember which one this is. My reflection in the elevator mirror is flat, yellowed, and heavy even though my face is thinning. The first step in is followed by tears that sting my cheek. I miss my dead friend. And all the boys I never loved or loved me. And I’m embarrassed that this is exactly the tableau people think of when they wince in sympathy at the thought of someone alone in their 30s. I’m embarrassed that I finally want love. And that I might need it. And that now that I’m ready to admit it, it might be too late. 9:52 p.m. - Sunday, Apr. 28, 2024 |
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