Sometimes, I lie around and do nothing. Nothing worthwhile at least. And as I am busily engaged in nothingness there's a sensible part of me saying, "Get up, what's wrong with you?" But I have this hollow feeling that is satisfied by the nothing. By the endless novel. The mindless television. The processed sugar kibble I chew like cud. As if all the garbage I take in will fill me and fulfill me.
A lot of times this happens at night. Even when I want to sleep. Even when Jute comes to me, and says he wants to sleep. He wants me to come sleep with him. He wants me in our bed. And the sensible parts of me says, "Yes, go to bed with him." "Hell," it says, "make love to him!" Or fuck him. Or something like that. I really do want to go with him, and seduce him with a quick, happy tumble before we cuddle and fall asleep.
Well, I didn't go tonight. The hollow place was too alluring and I thought, maybe if I just finish this show I'll be okay. When it was done I wrestled with myself to stop. I told myself I was going to go upstairs and snuggle him awake for a quick bit of nookie.
However when I got to my bed, I realized he wasn't in it. He'd asked me to go to bed, but I told him I was watching a show. After that he joined Lane in her bed. He'd done that instead of waiting for me, in my empty one. When I realized I would be alone tonight, it stung.
The sensible part of myself is pretty harsh now. It's telling me I'm the one to blame.
