25 November 2013
to be solitary, but to not be alone
it is usually, i find, a good idea, when one is off-work and alone and going stir crazy -- and especially when the sky is awash and abundant-- to dig out the most mottled & worn sweater one has, and, tucking a book under one's arm, brave the winter winds in pursuit of a little, unoccupied table at a nearby cafe. because, yes, i could, with my paper friend, curl and lay my body just so beneath my own, warm blankets, atop my own, warm bed, in the company of no one but my own, warm thoughts. but what little scope that adds to my story. how predictably, limitedly autobiographical. today, i preferred the option to flip through the pages of an old friend, surrounded by the small conversations of those friends, and those lovers, and those just meeting, sitting at the tables around me -- tiny bits of them weaving into and through the words i read. i stayed until the white sky grew gray, till the man who brought me my latte swept the floors of dust for the night, and the last light leaked through a frosted glass window, making what was gray there grayer still.