Thursday, September 20, 2012


In the morning, there's nothing I love more than solitude. Even these dark mornings of fall; the dark and cold mornings of winter. Perhaps I especially love it then, when I stir up the embers of yesterday's fire, add fresh logs, rekindle a blaze, huddle under a blanket in my chair with tea waiting for the house to warm.

By evening, I am lonely. Not every evening, not even most, I suppose, but some. Some days it happens after a full day of people; some days after a day with no one. Some days it creeps up - I can feel it building all day long - and other days it hits fast and hard. Maybe it comes after a good day of satisfying work. Maybe it comes after a long day of frustrations. Once, while on a date, in college, with a guy who was more of a friend - an unlikely friend, to be sure, but a friend nonetheless - I was told: "You are the loneliest person I know."

This morning, I stare into a fire that I built from scratch. I write this. My mind wanders, wraps around ideas, unfurls thoughts, curves and bends. It is peaceful, lovely even, and it is good. At its core, it is solitude. But, what will it be this evening?


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