We watched a film about saving the world. It was a good film; I laughed like a child, forgot it wasn't real, cried. Then we got home* and the real world broke. And I couldn't save the world, but I knew a man who could, so I left him to it.
Walking back to the station I wove my way between sirens; something bad had happened close by, something else, someone else's broken world. I wanted to stop and find out and help if I could, but if you try to do that people think you are being an accident junkie and I couldn't deal with anyone thinking that. Besides, I didn't know if I had any caring left to give out. I walked on.
It was cold. I was reminded of the time I walked home from Slimelight because my world was broken. Cold is good when you feel like this. It stops you feeling at all. Nobody bothered me on my way to the station. I wasn't surprised.
The tube was only going as far as Waterloo. Naturally. I decided it was easier and colder to walk the rest of the way home; not far, after all. There was a works party at the Cuban cocktail bar; I thought about all the things happening tonight that I'd said I couldn't go to. I breathed in the cold and refused to cry.
I'm home now and it isn't cold enough, but I am still refusing to cry. I have done the right thing - I must have because I'm in so much fucking pain. I ache for an arm around my shoulders or a hand to hold but hey, film at eleven and all that sort of thing. I am very glad I don't keep anything silly around the house.
*When I say 'home', I don't mean, y'know, *home*. Just 'home'.
Earlier tonight I observed that I felt breakable again, for the first time in a couple of weeks.
Oh, well. I wouldn't be me if I weren't in pieces, would I?