Catharsis: My Serenity Prayer

And he says, “Breathe in and accept the things we cannot change. But that has always been a problem with me. It’s funny, really, to me that sticking one’s neck out is considered brave. I can’t help but find it foolish.
“I know cowardice. The concept, the experience. And I say to the optimistic- maybe it is time for you to adjust your perspective. Realism as a goal is boring, but ultimately the most intelligent.
“So if I stop being so negative, could a few of you- just a couple really, stop being so goddamned cheery?”
And he paces around the room, trying to warm the worry and vomit out.
“So hysterical really, that I thought we could be perfect for each other. Imagine, a real notion, the first in- years truthfully, and it is for naught. An actual romantic feeling, flowers and the whole she-bang.”
He switches directions, only to end up where he started, at the beginning of a long cold room.
“Silly boy,” he said, “Silly, silly boy. Your forget how things can sting sometimes. Cliché or not it is called heartbreak for a reason. Something breaks. My heart split in two and the innards dripped into my stomach, causing my hands to shake and throat to clinch.”
And he wonders if a person, on the outside, could actually see the moment when someone’s heart breaks. If there is a twitch or jump, small or imperceptible, that telegraphs the inner workings.
“How could this be anything but penance?” he says, the mirror reflecting the cleanest skin he has had in a very long time. “My grace period has ended. But damn my hair looks good. See, see- I can build myself up, when I want to. Or really need to. But it’s hard when you know what’s bringing you down. And impossible when you not only know, but love him.”
And the music bleeds through the door and the pounding of some women who is letting him know that he does not belong there.
“I have that sense, sixth or not, that tells me how things will go. But I let puppy dogs cloud me on this one. When I knew where I would fall. So maybe I’ll just fuck off and listen to some indie music. Maybe, just maybe, that won’t remind me of him, but who am I kidding. Music and us are inseparable.”
And as the panic grows, he is aware that he has to leave.
“It will never be me. Will it? It could never be me. And that’s okay, just give me some time to write about it, make it art, and then throw it away.”
With a wash of his hands and a wipe of his face, he left the single bathroom and returned back to the bar, exorcised but still pining.