Alone

Nobody wants to be alone. I mean, if I had a choice, I would choose companionship and it’s not because I’m lonely; it’s because I’m human. Yesterday I choose to be alone. Not by choice, it was by a need to discover myself again.

I find myself teetering on brink of a mild depression. It’s purely situational although I am no stranger to it. My mind sometimes relishes in the idea. It wants to feel bad, to write sad poetry while eating whatever ready made meals are at hand, otherwise I’d go hungry. It very romantic, you know. Some of the best writers, songwriters, creators were strugglers also. They were restless; so romantic, so in despair that all they could do was create the most wondrous things in our existence.

I have been known to head to art galleries. I wear my best hat, dress in a manner that suggests I’m a free thinker, and I ponder every which way, folding my arms, relishing in the colors, and letting out sighs of appreciation. I know sub-consciously some of it’s an act. It’s as if I’m stuck in this morbid fantasy where I would be picked up by the most wonderfully creative and handsome man. He would paint for me. He would fill me in on the history of art, and later he would because disillusioned because he would realize I am a fraud. The picture he painted of me was premature.

I’m heading back, you know. I think there is a new exhibit opening in Vancouver and I have a year long membership, and the card itself is dusty. It’s time to start grabbing a hold of things that will stabilize me mentally.

So yeah, I am finding a lot of things are becoming familiar as of late. I just recently moved back to the grassroots of Victoria. I have moved back to my first home when I moved from Newfoundland to the West Coast. Initially, of course, because of the culture shock, I found it to be a seedy area. Now, it’s everything I ever wanted. It’s so me.

God, I can’t stand listening to myself.