Silent Night, Indeed
Oct. 12, 2006 Thursday night 6:45 PM, Figaro ATCNot much is happening now. The workday is officially over.
I try to keep count of my footsteps as I decide to take a long walk somewhere instead of inevitably going home. If this were another country I would have the luxury of traversing through a tree-lined park, or idly walking by a soothing river.
But this is where I live, so I resignedly head to the mall.
I get like this sometimes– morose, melancholy and introverted. I avoid the presence of company and retreat inside of myself. I then start pondering about whatever comes to mind.
I find myself sitting outside a coffee shop, sipping cappuccino while watching people pass by with a detached curiosity. I wonder if there are those among them who share similar thoughts as mine… like, are their lives standing still the same way I feel mine is at the moment, or, listening to a tinny ”Silent Night” blaring out of the mall speakers, do they feel an absence of emotion because Christmas is just around the corner and they have no one but themselves to celebrate the holiday season?
There is nothing worse than Christmas to remind you of your miserable, solitary existence.
I remember past Christmases in my head like a dusty slideshow of memories that only get to be played once a year. Barely sleeping on Christmas Eve as a little girl because I was too excited to peek in my stocking to check if Santa visited me this year; running around w/ my cousins similarly decked out in itchy velvet and lace dresses during family reunions on Christmas Day; Christmas caroling in the neighborhood with friends, exchanging presents w/ friends during Christmas parties in high school; rushing to and fro to frantically finish Christmas shopping in between exams and reports in college… and more recently, spending a romantic candlelit Christmas dinner with someone I love.
Contrary to how I appear, I was never really much of a dreamer. Not in the conventional sense as dreams go I suppose. Childhood friends of mine dreamed about having their ideal wedding w/ Mr. Right, the beautiful house and the cute kids that came along w/ the package. They dreamt of the perfect job and the perfect vacation spots.
I never dreamed about any of those things as a child. Maybe I didn’t believe in them, or maybe I thought them to be too ordinary. I found myself dreaming of different (if not necessarily realistic) things– writing a novel, traveling to Paris, skydiving, meeting David Duchovny, becoming an archeologist, learning to play the violin, getting an apartment and a hush puppy named Jerry Maguire.
I always dreamed of the perfect moment, not the perfect life. Sitting here now, scribbling in my journal while my iced cappuccino leaves a watermark on the corner of the page and my vanilla pudding slowly cooling beside it– this is a perfect moment for me.
But looking at other people– friends, cousins I grew up with– who have more or less achieved one form of a conventional dream or another (being a wife, a mom.. finding the job they have always wanted, etc.)– makes me look in the mirror and ask myself silently, ’Am I living the life I wanted to have?’
The answer to that is a sad but knowing no. Although I hadn’t dreamed of it, or honestly can’t see myself married right now or jetsetting to one country on a business assignment to another, I guess I also didn’t quite expect to be where I am right now, a solitary figure. Forever searching for something missing. Always elusive and intangible.
They say loneliness is a choice, but not in my case. Not right now.
Which is ironic, because my life from the outside is nothing but charmed. A comfortable lifestyle, a nice, stable job twenty minutes from home, a loving family, friends whom I don’t get to see as much as I want to but I know are there despite their busy schedules. I’m okay as far as physical appearances go I suppose; en route to this coffee shop I have heard about 5 offhand compliments (read: come-ons) thrown my way in fact, and instead of feeling flattered, all I felt was an oncoming headache.
So why do I feel so depressed? All my life I have lived with solitude, and tonight should be no different.
I wish as a writer I could have some sort of satisfying answer by the time I finish this entry, but I can’t. All I can do is transform this mess inside me into some form of scribbled coherent descriptive prose and hope it will make more sense on paper.
Nothing much is happening now. A man sits at the table next to mine, throws frequent glances at me, and I look away. The day has officially ended and inevitably, I feel like going home now.
7:35 PM
