I'm fine, how are you holding up?, 2020
I wake up at 7:30am. I make my coffee, read the news, eat a breakfast of berries and toast with a side of leftovers from dinner. I turn on the Sopranos. I lose track of time at around 1pm. Next thing I know it’s 3am and I haven’t moved. I couldn’t tell you what my day is filled with because I don’t know. In between text messages, memes, and the next cigarette I will eventually have (because why not), I’m losing my mind in this studio apartment.
While I’m thankful for the people in my life reaching out to me because they know I live alone, the how-are-you-doing-this-is-fucking-crazy-wash-your-hands conversations didn’t give me the connection that “all in this together” implied.
I’m alone. I want to touch you. I want to sit across the table from you and grab your hands and hold it to my face. I want to cry into your lap. I want you to tell me everything will be okay as I stare into your eyes. I want to feel your breath in an embrace that tells me I’m alive and home.
My dying phone that needs to stay connected to a charger, struggles to keep up with its current frivolous use. An Instagram story lets my friends know I’m okay. A “reaction” lets me know my family is thinking of me. A re-post to remind me that I was once cultured and smart. A thirsty photo of this physical body I’ve forgotten I inhabit. A story has essentially become the only way I exist in the world.
Out of the scenes of some dystopian body horror movie, my phone has become an extension of my hand. Apps are now the only way to create, social media is the only way to share. It’s glowing light is the only sunshine I’m not shamed for feeling. I’ve become a collage of images at a distance for your pleasure. Musings you can skip over until something funnier comes along. A stroke of keys away from feeling like you’ve done your part.
We’re not together, we’re alone, but enough about me, darling, I’m fine, how are you holding up?