The majority of people who know me would say I’m somewhat of a social butterfly. I enjoy the company of others. I enjoy the conversations of others, and especially being a part of them. I am bubbly and outgoing. I can relate to anyone, and no one is a stranger to me. All of this probably comes from the fact that I don’t want to be alone.
In truth, I am incredibly antisocial. There are times, most times, where I don’t want to be around anyone at all. In fact, most people annoy me with their idiocy. Over time, I have realized that if I can look past the annoyances, their idiocy can somewhat keep me entertained. Not speaking is actually what I do when I am comfortable, and my talking a lot is usually just a sign that I am uncomfortable, which I usually am around people in general.
I would be perfectly content living alone. In a big, old house in the woods, with nothing to keep me company but my thoughts and my stories. It’s like I was saying, I could get my best writing done in such a setting. I may not be the best writer in the world, but I do enjoy writing immensely. Nobody will ever see most of the uselessness of it all, but it still fills up a huge part of my time. Not just the writing, but the thoughts that inspire it all. Most of the time that others are speaking to me, they aren’t even there. I am lost in my own thoughts, and they are just a reminder of how badly I wish I could return to my silent solitude.
Those that know any fraction of how rocky my moods can be actually seem to be afraid to leave me alone for too long. They fear that I may self-destruct completely, or they fear for my sanity. It’s true – being alone for so long sparks my mania, my insanities, my delusions. But with no one there to please, what does it matter? Who cares if I want to pretend for the day that I’m in another era? Who cares if I want to spend two days straight curled up in a corner with a book? Who would I be bothering if I decided to take a nap in the bathtub, or use the oven as extra shoe storage?
I’ve often envisioned myself living out my life completely alone. Not even a pet (though I do love animals) to keep me company. Even now, I am alone. Sure, there are people inside the house, whatever it is they are doing. Yet, here I sit, on the porch, alone. Nothing but my wandering thoughts and memories keeping me company. And the darkness.
I love the nighttime and its soothing whispers. I can usually sit on this empty porch and feel at peace. But tonight, the emptiness is screaming in my ear. There is another seat on this swing, and it is empty. She isn’t here. I don’t feel her with me. All I can think of is the memory of her, and how we used to sit out here every night one of the summers I lived with her. I’d make us each a drink, and we’d sit out here all night, in our comfortable silence – broken only when a story passed through her head, or a rambling thought through mine – until I was ready to pass out, or she was ready to retire to her room for the night.
These moments are gone. Forever stolen from me by some unfair hand of Fate. I don’t know what I would give to have her here again, but I think even a deal with the Devil sounds more than reasonable. To have another night like that. To not be alone. Yet another contradiction – the girl that thrives on isolation is lonely. Oh, I am filled with those.