September 5th, 2014

There is no fine line between loneliness and solitude, only a clunky, black-Sharpie-esque streak that delineates both. Even though there are many nights I wonder if I know how to be alone, now is one fine, humid afternoon where I seek solitude. For now, I will pretend that I am the only one here surrounded by people, but not. Not in my own little head, at least–let us play make-believe.

Do you remember when that was the highlight of many days? Make believe: let’s pretend we’re this, let’s pretend we’re that. Let’s pretend that there is no now that’s now, only now that’s tomorrow, next month, next year, graduation. Let’s pretend that all the molecules in my body are melting from the dragging boredom that is time, that instead of electron-grounding it is flesh-grounding, that now it is a change of phase! melting, melting, melting into the cement floor, and nobody will ever notice.

And then: when living in dreams was once a thing. When everything felt so real in your head–the grass, the dew, even the way things smelled–you turned into a zombie. You’d vie for the next bout of sleep just so you could fall into the rabbit hole of dreams. You’d spend your waking hours wishing they were sleeping hours, of REM, of dream-state, of somebody whispering your name across a party and you hearing it.


3 thoughts on “Reverie

  1. windstrewn May 15, 2017 / 6:56 pm

    I see your post hails from a few years back, but it meets me in the now. A couple of things came immediately to mind as I read through it:

    a) I have a friend who shared something with me early last winter, just as I was becoming heart-steady enough to take my initially shaken steps into single-life for the first time in well over a decade. She said, “Rest, now. Take time. Look for yourself again. You’ll know you’re ready to reenter an intimate relationship when you’ve finally become comfortable with being in an intimate relationship with yourself.” I find this touchstone of wisdom to be both profound and pacifying. And, even still, I check myself against this yardstick almost daily. My blog, my music, my writing, both published and never-to-be, all represent a return to and in, some ways, a new discovery of what it is I want to stuff into my bag as I press on in this journey.

    b) I’ve also hidden in my heart a stanza from Richard Lovelace’s poem To Althea, from Prison. It reads: “Stone walls do not a prison make, / Nor iron bars a cage; / Minds innocent and quiet take / That for a hermitage;” End of day, we are where we are. It’s entirely up to us as to what comforts we will draw from this place, that place, our occupied space. And this can be an extraordinarily powerful and emancipating act of choice.

    If I’m honest, alone is not a place where I’d choose to build a permanent French Colonial. It’s fine as summer lake house. Meanwhile, I think it’s much less a matter of figuring out how to be alone as it is a matter of deliberately choosing, moment by moment, to spend time with someone I’d really like to get to know: me.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Lu May 16, 2017 / 9:20 pm

      This is beautiful. You are a lovely writer. Thank you for sharing this !

      Liked by 1 person

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