You wake up–it’s 12 am. You don’t know how you did this again, fell asleep on the couch, computer in arm, sunglasses on your head. So you get up, slowly turn off the light, and slide into bed, fully clothed. You don’t care because there is nobody to care there either. It is a literal slide because your bed is hip height, which is actually pretty tall compared to most beds. But you are happy about that and it’s easy. You’ve grabbed your phone as you always do, check your accounts for any news, thinking that instead of spam messages, you might actually get something from someone you care for or about. You hope that it’s not all facebook foolishness, because you are so worn from a lack of real human contact, that you actually find yourself later agreeing to things you could never imagine being comfortable with before. 

So as you are checking your news you notice you haven’t had any messages sent to you in days, you know, the cheap ones of the text variety. The ones which say a lot of nothing unless you give credence to the sheer number. There is a friend of yours who you speak with so much you have close to 2000 messages back and forth. There is another one you’ve known only a few months compared to the literal years of the first that you have close to 1600 with–you look and you read through and you think, well, yeah, you might be a little wordy, girl. Next time be more elusive, maybe a lot less interested, and maybe then it won’t feel so hollow. You tell yourself it isn’t you, it’s clearly them. That you are an amazing person and though most people might not know this, those who do know, and know it well.

You then check the news for reasons why you should never move back to the east. This news is always easy to find, splashed on the covers of the NY papers, tales of murder, robbery, rape and various other horrific details. You wonder if it’s because you are looking for reasons to never return, or getting some bizarre comfort in the familiarity of chaos. You scrap that idea because being comfortable with that kind of drama must make you some kind of monster. So you start to rattle off the good things about moving since you’ve arrived. You realize they all have to do with nature. You understand that the beauty of the land is enough to make you forget about everyone. You hug yourself with this knowledge.

You then get up, since your head is swimming with ideas, and recognize that falling asleep at 8 and getting 4 hours by midnight makes you a lot less tired than you should feel. Your mind doesn’t let you forget that the loneliness is an echo. You wonder if you will feel like will ever deserve another person close to you. You wonder what is wrong with you, you wonder what is missing. You torture yourself with the idea that you are so different from anyone else that you are like an alien in a foreign land. People don’t speak your language, and when you even guess to think that they do, they sweep the rug out from under you and stop speaking in any language period. You decide it’s better that way, because trying to speak in a discernible language is getting tougher the more you try to do it. You clearly have problems because you keep trying to learn this.

You let these ideas swim freely in your head because it is too late to read and too early to read all at the same time. You then head back to bed because there is nothing else you have the energy to do at that time.

You wake up. There is nothing to do but walk. So you walk, and you walk as fast as you can. You wear ridiculous outfits you could never normally imagine wearing, short gym shorts, tank top, large orthopedic rocker shoes. You know your legs need the sun, so you slather on 70 and 90 on your arms back and face, respectively. You hope that if you get cancer it doesn’t happen near your legs, because that would make your whole routine pointless. You walk alone most days because you hate waiting for people, and you feel like your life is out there for you to go get. You see some of the same people every day. You hope that by smiling and saying hello that you might get your communication bank filled for the day. You wonder if your tattoos turn people off. You think that based on the looks and the mean age of people out at 7:30 that of course they do. You recognize that everyone else your age is at work. So you feel guilty for a minute, but only one. You recognize that most people hadn’t been working in real jobs since they were 15. You are happy you are not afraid to work, but that isn’t enough to compel you to take anything which wouldn’t make you happy.

Being happy is all that drives you. You look up at the mountains over the park, the goslings, the baby ducks, and you realize that life is simple here. You recognize that simple is okay, that it’s preferable in fact to the chaos which sprung you out. You make mental notes of the place to return to do your paintings, but you realize it might be a few days before that happens. You are happy being able to walk, being able to move. You finish your walk and you go to your coffee shop. You try and make connections with everyone you see there more than once, but they are used to seeing many regulars and you realize they know nothing about you except that you have some tattoos and you are new. That is all they know, and likely all they will know until you stop looking new and start looking old.

Old makes you sad and you go home. You walk down the same street you manage to walk down a dozen, a half dozen times a day. You wonder if the neighborhood thinks you are crazy, or bored, or that you are always on the move. You think that always having somewhere to go sounds better, so that’s what the truth will be. You will return to the same stretch of street throughout the day, taking yourself out to lunch, enjoying the happy hour. You realize if you get drunk too early no bike riding will happen. So you only allow yourself to do that once or twice a week. Beyond that you are just making your rounds, thinking you will cross paths with someone you met once before, at least. Then you realize you can count on one hand the new people you have truly met aside from your young stoner neighbors. You realize they were all internet dates, and that not one is still around. You get a little sad about that, and hope they are well.

You read in the spaces not filled with the noise in your own head. You recognize not having your music is a detriment to everyone around you as well. You start pulling the same thing from books you used to pull when you were just grounded and they were the only choice for entertainment. You find peace in other people’s worlds and lives because sitting so long present in your own has started to take its toll.

You wonder if anyone reads you anymore. You wonder if the same people do or if they are all different. You wonder if you have helped anyone even for a minute. You hope that there is a point to it all even if you haven’t found one yet.

You push the feelings of doubt deep into the old places doubt once used to sit. You realize that life is always moving, and there is no place for doubt in a healthy woman’s life. You start thinking a little too much about doubt. You call your mother and tell her you still have no friends but you are trying. She tells you about your sister’s wedding coming up, how she has chosen her dress. You pat yourself on the back because you always knew she would beat you to that, too. You realize your claims to fame are not fun like that at all in terms of the family. You realize you got to know death and doubt a little better than you got to know life and hope, and you cry because you know that part of you is broken.