Day-Old Donuts

My eyes open, and quickly close again. It’s already light out, and surely there is something that I should be doing, somewhere that I have to be. There isn’t any good reason that the sun is up and I’m still in bed. Whatever it is, there’s a good chance that I’m already running late, already a step behind. Business as usual, I suppose. No, wait. Last night was Friday, which would make today Saturday. I don’t have anywhere to be. At least, I don’t think I do. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

I shift my body over so that I’m laying on my back again. I allow my eyes to open, and stare at the ceiling. If only I could stay in bed all day. How freeing it would be, if I faced no consequence for lingering in this vegetative state, and my mind and body had a chance to catch up. Everything has been moving so very fast lately, and the weight of it all is dragging me to depths I never thought I would find. Alas, the nature of life is not so. Time marches forward, the days into months, months into years, and years into decades. Although I’ve only seen two of them myself, it seems as though the speed at which we experience time increases exponentially with each passing decade. The world keeps spinning, and we just keep getting older. Each moment is supposed to be a priceless treasure, one that we should hold on to and cherish in our memory until our final days. And yet I’m wasting this one being lazy. I guess it’s time to move, to do something with this half-wasted day.

I sit up. A single beam of sunlight shines through the gap between the cheap curtains covering my window, but it is enough to light up the space. As they take it all in, I can feel my eyes sink. My room contains fragments of the past, subtle and obvious clues eluding to last night’s events. Clothes are strewn across the floor, drawers on my dresser are open, and there are papers and change everywhere. It’s funny how our environments can so closely represent what is going on in our psyche, as if that which was internal was painting itself on the world so that it would have some form of external expression, albeit a subtle one. My messy room is an honest testament to my mental and emotional state, which can’t seem to improve lately. And thinking about it like this only makes it worse. Thinking about it only remind me of my failures, of the good things I let slip through my fingers. Thinking about it only reminds me of her.

Nearly ten hours have passed since I fell asleep late last night, but I am still tired. Exhausted, really. Our bodies can be so cruel, the way that they make us feel this way, even when we give them the things we think they want. I climb out of bed, and my feet hit the cool floor. Summer is considering leaving, but hasn’t quite made up it’s mind yet, so it’s still warm. I shuffle to the kitchen, and my clumsy hands prepare a pot of coffee. Two scoops of medium roast, a sprinkle of cinnamon. Pour the water, make sure it’s all in place, start the brew. If only everything were this easy, this effortless. A coffeemaker doesn’t have any ulterior motives, wondering how it’ll get the best of you. A coffeemaker doesn’t envision a future with you, and then blame you for hurting them when that future doesn’t come to pass. No, a coffeemaker just makes coffee until it no longer can. If only everything else were so simple.

The coffee gives much-needed clarity, and I can finally focus again. But with the clarity comes a heightened sense of self-awareness, which only amplifies the voice of self-deprecation in my head. What once were whispers suddenly become shouts, and the ensuing noise is almost unbearable. Perhaps if I weren’t so stupid, if I hadn’t been so selfish and ignorant, I wouldn’t have pushed her away. It’s just like me to get close to someone only to draw away. I know that vulnerability is what makes these connections stronger, makes them last, but it terrifies me. The person that I’ve become is somebody to be hated, someone unworthy of all meaningful human interaction, especially love. I don’t want anyone to know this about me, to see the phantoms and specters that haunt my soul, that have dominion over my heart. I could feel that she was beginning to see this, beginning to see what terrible things I was capable of.

Or was it her? Perhaps she is the one to blame. After all, she said that I did everything right, didn’t she? If I did everything right, then she would be the bad one in this story, she would be the one that had made the cruel, hurtful choice. Am I worthy of such pain? Am I that repulsive, that after only a month, she would call things off? I loved those nights we spent together, those mornings I found myself driving home at 3 a.m., euphoric from the hours I had spent with her doing nothing. Nothing meaningful, just enjoying each other’s company, getting wrapped up in the emotions and the sensations that you do when you’re young and in love. Her lips connected me to a higher level of existence, one where time and obligation no longer mattered. It was just me and her, holding each other in the darkness, safe from the world, taking refuge in the passion we had found in each other’s eyes.

But just like that, it was gone. I tried to hold on to the rock that I thought our love was, but it slipped through my fingers like sand blowing through the desert. One moment I was convinced I had everything, and the next I knew I had nothing. The future I had planned with her, all the thoughtful surprises and the whimsical trips that were going to happen were suddenly gone. I don’t even know what I’m going to do with myself for the next few months. Everything I was hoping for was in her, and now that she’s gone, I’m hopeless.

I got a box of donuts yesterday, one of the last things that we shared before the bitter end. If only I had known, I would of done something better, something more meaningful and romantic. But I wanted donuts, and she wanted someone that wasn’t me. There’s one with maple frosting left, and it crunches with the stainless that comes from sitting in a paper box for twenty four hours. I guess that day-old donuts are a lot like me; they were compelling at the beginning, but as soon as you get a taste, you put them down and decide against it. Maybe next time will be different. Maybe next time she’ll stay.