Solitude

Night: I am in bed alone, windows open, listening to street sounds and reading Bukowski. And were it not for the wife downstairs, the mortgage, the paid-for car, the steady paycheck and the absence of two packs of smokes and clouds of depression I could easily be 24 in my Boston brownstone again. Consistancy is non-linear sometimes, but it inevitably follows a direct path.

I've been thinking about solitude and all its connotations lately. I'm at an interesting point of symmetry: I basically spent the first half of my adult life alone, and I have spent the last half happily attached. But where is the middle ground between? And how far on either side do I want to go? I know the answer is not very. And I'm definitely finding healthy ways of stepping out into my own, and it's been very beneficial to do so. Still, it's hard to find a balance.

It's nice to be suspended between, though...