It is nobody's fault that I choose to be alone. All my life, this is what I know and these recent months simply heightened such conviction.
The more people I see, the stronger is my disconnection. I require no human contact nor constant communication. My best is this: late night typing when the town is asleep, classical piano playing on the radio, and words my only friend. They rejuvenate me.
I spend my days studying early 1900s English poetry, avoiding rhymes, some TV shows, continuous reflections, and writing here and there. People and their noise irk me so much that I want to shut the whole world out of my sight.
Often I stare at the wall outside my window, its broken white stained with traces of heavy rainfalls, imagining invisible ghosts playing their merry music. I like it like this. No one to question me, no obligations to anyone but myself. The only thing occupying my brain is refreshing my lexicons with synonyms and queer phrases.
Nothing can be better.
The money I earned from teaching is enough to support me for one or two more years. No worries of insufficiency. And the sadness from wishing for my true love has long evolved into acceptance — that I met him twice in my dreams. A glimpse of how it feels to have the perfection of requited love. Something too fantastic to be real.
Searching for him should be a waste — when I preserve him in my eternal memory. He is my only, and no one else has access to this privacy. Years have matured me to treasure the present without looking back to my past.
Loneliness leads me to thriving creativity, and this is where I long to be: unspoiled by investigations, undivided in my company.
Monday, May 6, 2013, 1:48 – 2:28 AM
Illustration by Sabrina Garrasi.