9:25

Sometimes I miss being alone. Humans were designed to be social creatures: souls split in half many thousands of years ago, born onto this earth to search, to yearn, to fornicate. There are many ways I convince myself that I am, in fact, not alone. For example, I used to surround myself with groups of friends, of whom I would feed all my love and all my energy into. They stayed around me because I was the fertile soil by the mouth of a river. Because I was nurturing, like the sun’s light. And I felt loved, at ease. I wasn’t alone, no–I couldn’t be: look around at all these smiling faces. Truly, I felt like an outsider. These people who surrounded me, they wouldn’t stay. They couldn’t. I wouldn’t let them stay. I refused. I once called myself “a migrating bird”. It’s good of a reason enough to justify my actions. I move to where suits me. And then I entered my first relationship. I am loved, constantly. And I love, constantly. And I am never alone because I never let myself be, physically, alone. But sometimes, I miss being alone. Sometimes I feel that I was designed to be an introverted creature, a complete soul who never searches, never longs, finds love and generates love only within herself. Being alone. Solitude. To be a recluse, to coil inwards, to feed on nothing to see no sunlight. To be fueled by the reassurance of loneliness, to only feel one feeling, to be embraced forever by its lack of embrace.
To open doors and find nothing but my breath upon the wall.