Don’t open that door

Day 5: Several clementines, nutella, 1 egg, bread, lentils with onion and carrot, chicken katsu salad, whisky.

Sometimes it’s better not to know.

As of the 1st of January, apart from having moved on a very cosy boat, I also changed my privacy settings on WhatsApp. You can now no longer see when I was last online, and neither can I see when you were. It had to be done. Things were getting out of hand, and I am sure most people would know what I am talking about. Why has he not been online for so many hours? Who is he with? I’ll stop here, no need to humiliate myself further. This whole ‘last seen’ business was driving me mad. And it was completely useless.

My friend has compared this so-called online ‘stalking’ (which however is nothing like real-life stalking*) to squeezing pimples: you know it’s bad for you, your skin gets red and you’re probably going to get an infection. But you do it anyway. Because it makes you feel good, for, like, a second. Then straight after you regret it. You look at your red face and you think, what an idiot, I’ve done it again. But you keep doing it anyway, over and over and over again.

Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over

Again.

Checking the time.

Checking the time.

Checking the time. it’s 4:42am. Wide awake. Checking the time.

Checking the time.

Checking the time you were last online.

Scrolling up

Scrolling up

Scrolling up to the source.

Looking for crumbs

Crumbs of bread, of cake, of croissant

Of care

Scrolling down

scrolling down scrolling down scrolling down to

The unpalatable truth of your silence.

Why?

I do not care for an answer. I just want.

I want.

But I can’t have.

So I check the time.

I check the time.

I check the time.

Over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over

Again.

Relentless.

Consuming.

Ever-reaching like roots my thoughts

run deep in multiple directions towards you

But you can’t see them I can’t possibly show them to you you would not understand

You would not want me to

Check the time.

A long, silent wail

Sharpened ends penetrating the soft walls of my skin from the inside.

*my friend says that in-person stalking is so different from the online that the online version should actually not be called stalking. She has a very good point there. Usually stalkers who wait for you outside the house or follow you in the street or send you texts or leave you messages want to be seen. They want your attention. Conversely, you really don’t want to be caught checking your ex online – hence, when you hand over your phone to your friend to show her his picture you make sure they know they should be VERY careful NOT to press anything by mistake.

One other consideration on this topic, from my very clever friend. When we were younger and all these social media tools of misery did not exist, we still used to ‘stalk’ people, but we would do it in person. We’d maybe happen to be nearby where the bloke lived or we’d pass by where he hanged out at strategic times. But at least we would get out of the fucking house. And it was actually quite fun. Now, you can ‘stalk’ people comfortably from your bed first thing in the morning. Which really is not quite fun at all.

One thought on “Don’t open that door

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