in this hypothetical trip to orlando, there is no trek to disney world, which means that yes, this trip is blasphemous, yes, this is for ulterior motives, no darling, you shouldn’t have done it, we all know why you’re here. but then here i am, in this thought exercise. i land at the orlando airport flanked by children on vacation and strollers and mickey mouse ears, and i am here for self-inflicted pain that i call closure. i am not sure what to call it, actually. maybe a fanatic. maybe that’s what you call someone who wants to see the scene of a crime for the first time where she is the victim.
the first stop is the ice factory, i guess. that’s where there were three days spent. maybe you go in, you walk around before they ask you what you’re doing, but as someone who is familiar with hockey rinks and other winter activities, you know how to lie. you say you’re here to watch a friend on the ice and they lead you to the bleachers and you sit by yourself amid the dim florescent lights where all the good light has been trained onto the ice, and you imagine you are her, sitting there watching your ex-lover do what he told you he was doing in this city. you sit for a while until your cheeks are comfortably numb and you go back into the humid cover of florida to suffer further.
the second stop are maybe the homes where he has stayed. both from the trip of the infamous betrayal and also his college house. you drive slow, you park, pretend you’re looking for directions. no one would suspect you to be a trespasser and you’re not really a trespasser, merely a curious tourist, an observer really, with morbid curiosity of a trivia fact that’s only relevant to three people. what are you looking for but peace with yourself? you would never find it here.
afterward, you go to the bars. the restaurants. i don’t know. the shops. not the touristy places. you’re going where the locals go. you feel numb. you’re not looking to drink. everybody doesn’t understand why you are there. you sit in the noise, you close your eyes, you sway to the top 100 pop music that’s playing dully through the speakers at some american bistro with mediocre chairs and bad lighting. you decide you’ll probably need to apply sunscreen. you realize you’d hate moving here. you are mad at him, you are resentful. you remember that you’ve told the other boy that you’re not ready for a relationship yet because you still harbor too much emotional resentment over what happened to you. and so what do you do? you go to the scene of the adultery. you go to the scene of the crime and you immerse yourself in it. you are convert and you’re being baptized in it. drink it up then, baby. that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? What closure are you seeking here? to feel like you’ve seen the crime scene and now you can imagine scenarios in your head better? clearer? more realistically?
you cry. you sob. you spend three nights in some marriott-brand hotel and you write in your journal, you sob some more, you listen to music you shouldn’t listen to. you brush your hand against the humidity that seeps into every crevice of your soul, hoping that the answer is somewhere there, that salvation is there, that peace with yourself is there in self-punishment, in self-endurance, which by your definition is simply enduring yourself, enduring the pain of living with yourself.
but love, that is not peace. you will never find peace with yourself here. imagine yourself elsewhere, ideally where you are now in grey, damp, new york. with its damped sidewalks and barren trees. with running shoes dodging dog shit, jaywalking on main streets and little streets, throwing out trash that stinks up your entire apartment. you are in the now, you are here, this is where you are, this is reality and where it hurts the most. you want the scene of the crime? follow the victim. you want to wrap it up? hold yourself tightly. peace with yourself comes from acknowledging the hurt and then letting it go. the scene of the crime will get cleaned up one day but the traces of it, the memories… they will always be there. they will feel crystal clear in the first few weeks but slowly they will fade. and life continues, life goes on. don’t you remember that brutal fact? the city will move on and charge forward where the yellow tape has been taken down or it’s billowing in the wind. people will move on. people have places to go, lives to live. you’ve got a life to live too. you’ve got jobs to apply for and jobs to secure! you’ve got phone calls and emails with good news to answer and open. you’ve got a life that is in the now whether you like it or not. the pain of remember what happened makes it feel like suffering through it is necessity, and it is, but you always can’t stay there, stagnant. you have to move on. hotels and motels for life! life is transient, life moves with or without you. it won’t wait.
the tomorrow, the someday you desperately kept wishing for is here. it’s now, baby.
so unpack that suitcase. don’t get on this flight. this alternate trip is one for locked up dreams. let’s not revisit scenes of long-ago crimes. you hate ghost stories anyway.
tenminutethoughts 