There is something about sitting alone in your bed, wrapped up in blankets upon blankets, with coffee by your side and nothing to distract you from being wholly by yourself. It is a calming kind of atmosphere, in which a beautiful mood overtakes your body, surrounding your body rolled in quilts and warming the toes that are otherwise perpetual icicles.
It's my favorite kind of afternoon. It's solitary and silent, peaceful but exhilarating. So much can be done and so many thoughts can be thought. Yet, not everyone is so fond of these days, these wonderful, relaxing days.
My phone rings and I let the answering machine pick it up, as I won't let anything disrupt this feeling, this aloneness. It's probably just her, again, calling, again, daily, again and again. She never lets me be, never lets up.
And the phone beeps to let me know she's left a message. One of six I've been neglecting for days. Not just from her, no. From my father, from the woman in the apartment above mine, from the bank, from my beautiful Timothy. I should listen to what they have to say, but I'm too weary to stand.
Truthfully, I've been enjoying this luxurious solitude for days now, a week now. I know why they're calling, they're worrying. They're afraid something's happened, when clearly it hasn't, or has. Even if something has happened, it won't matter soon. There are ways, of course, there are ways to fix problems, to absolve sins and clear slates. They're worried, I know, but they needn't be. Not now.
Once more I roll onto my stomach, a position I've occupied for hours over the past eight days, and I stretch, arms extending over my head, pulling my bones and muscles and the very flesh of my body just enough to make me feel good. It's a momentary high, I think, it rushes straight to your head without any lingering poison clouding the rest of your organs. But it's too short, that's true. There must be better ways.
It's my favorite kind of afternoon. It's solitary and silent, peaceful but exhilarating. So much can be done and so many thoughts can be thought. Yet, not everyone is so fond of these days, these wonderful, relaxing days.
My phone rings and I let the answering machine pick it up, as I won't let anything disrupt this feeling, this aloneness. It's probably just her, again, calling, again, daily, again and again. She never lets me be, never lets up.
And the phone beeps to let me know she's left a message. One of six I've been neglecting for days. Not just from her, no. From my father, from the woman in the apartment above mine, from the bank, from my beautiful Timothy. I should listen to what they have to say, but I'm too weary to stand.
Truthfully, I've been enjoying this luxurious solitude for days now, a week now. I know why they're calling, they're worrying. They're afraid something's happened, when clearly it hasn't, or has. Even if something has happened, it won't matter soon. There are ways, of course, there are ways to fix problems, to absolve sins and clear slates. They're worried, I know, but they needn't be. Not now.
Once more I roll onto my stomach, a position I've occupied for hours over the past eight days, and I stretch, arms extending over my head, pulling my bones and muscles and the very flesh of my body just enough to make me feel good. It's a momentary high, I think, it rushes straight to your head without any lingering poison clouding the rest of your organs. But it's too short, that's true. There must be better ways.
