I’ve been thinking about her. Unnaturally, she keeps coming into my mind. I know it will never happen; it should never happen. Meeting your heroes only leads to disappointment. But what if it didn’t?
I’m 34 now, overweight and struggling with success in my business. The slight, sharp pains around the stretch marks growing across my stomach are the first sensation I feel after four hours of sleep. Rewatching Snowpiercer into the night, hoping to recapture that feeling of completing a TV show, was enough to sacrifice my sleep. I couldn’t take my eyes off the actress who bared a resemblance to “her.” Her, who I think about when I look back at the regrets of not pursuing my feelings. Her, who I hoped my directness would quench my curiosity about “What if?” Her, whom I greatly wish to forget and never think about again.
Why does my mind keep coming back to her? Why did I dream about a life that can never be? I want to forget you so I can look forward to the wonders that await me. But I have to find you to see if there is a “What if?” We are worlds apart, yet I know where I can find you. I search your name online, and there you are, aged beautifully, as though I had seen you only yesterday. I scroll through your posts and see the life you have made. I look at the cover of your book, opening it to the references page, and smirk. Our interests are the same; I had read the books you used to build your ideas.
But first, I need to grab your attention. I need to become a person you’d look at unprompted. My energy has to be that of a calm giant, reshaping the world around you so all you see is me. Me, who wishes to talk to you and only you. Me, who wants to learn, “What if?”
Cigarettes
It’s getting to the point where my local Tesco basically knows to get my cigarettes ready the moment I walk in. One way to look at it is that you are respected; the other is that you simply have a problem. I have a problem.
I started smoking at the ripe age of 21. It was a good way for me to ease into social situations, which felt alien at the time.
The Wall
I envisage this journey as me reaching an immeasurable wall. Laying my palm on the brickwork, I rest my forehead against it, clamping and pushing. Pushing like my life depends on it. Pushing not to break through the wall, but just to move it a micro-millimeter. Enough to make a noise.
With each push, my fingers dig into the brickwork, clawing at it while my palms lay flat on the surface. I'm crying, grunting until I start not to scream, but to roar. The loudest roar that no one will hear. Every so often, I slap the wall, hit the wall, punch the wall with my fist, letting my fists bleed, and keep pushing with all my strength.
This wall symbolizes the barriers I've faced—self-doubt, regret, and the weight of unmet potential. It's the embodiment of the struggles that have held me back and the inner battles I've fought. Each brick represents a moment of hesitation, a bad habit, or a missed opportunity.
In my mind, I see myself standing there, every ounce of strength focused on this singular task. My muscles strain, sweat beads on my forehead, and my breath comes in short, determined gasps. The world narrows down to the sensation of the rough brick against my skin and the resistance beneath my hands.
I know that moving this wall, even by the tiniest fraction, signifies change. It represents the incremental steps of progress, the small victories that accumulate over time. Each push is a testament to my resolve, a defiance against stagnation.
This metaphorical wall isn't about grand gestures or sudden transformations. It's about the slow, steady effort of pushing forward despite the odds. It's about making enough noise to signal to myself and the world that I'm not giving up.
Reflecting on the Past
I have memories of her—a school outing where she asked if she could join my band. I so badly wanted to spend more time with her alone and said yes. I think this confirmed to her that I had feelings for her or had a crush on her. I look back at the memory with embarrassment and shame. Maybe I should have played it cool and not shown my intent so obviously.
This is something I refined once I started smoking and throwing myself into social situations. Those social situations were me being taught how to pick up girls. That approach, based on manipulation, was the starting point in building my confidence until it was broken down, and I adopted the “I don’t give a shit” attitude of brutal honesty. The games were over, and I started to be real. Then I stopped all of this.
All this development within myself succumbed to… life, is the only way I can put it. I stopped putting myself first and began putting everyone else ahead of me. This is where I went wrong. I succumbed to drinking, smoking, paid sex, and the exploration of bad habits. Exploration turned into rewarding myself by indulging in these bad habits regularly until I found myself now fat, out of shape, angry at the world, and wondering why I didn’t do better.
Present Struggle
I am sitting here, writing this out, feeling the fat of my body change the shape of my shirt. Grabbing it, pulling it in. If you were to look at the back of me, you could call me the Michelin man. I’m smoking and drinking.
She could be my goal post. But am I still working towards the same goals as others? Or am I working towards my own goal of meeting her?