I rarely talk to people. People, the word makes my flesh crawl. They so rarely consider their thoughts, let alone their actions. So I sit, often alone, wherever I find myself. The office leaves me dry, papers upon papers upon papers strewn about, each filed to where it belongs, fast, thorough, without mistake. Occasionally I get an ‘attaboy’ from the suits, but suits are all I see in their eyes. No thought or desire to make a way of their own. So I sit, often alone.
The bus is no different. So many people, so little energy. The most energy is usually in the younger ones, with their music and hair and clothes, each one louder than the last. But even these aren’t people to me. I sit, often alone in the vinyl seat, breathing in the vapors of the ‘people’ around me, catching the essence of where they’ve been. Do they even know? Perhaps not, and who is to say I’m any different? Do any of us know where we are or where we’re going? But I do love to watch those ones go, for life hasn’t yet robbed them of their belief that what they do matters or will have an impact on the world where they, too, will one day sit, often alone.
Home is empty. Two chairs; one for me, and one for my coat. The table broke over a year ago, and the ruins of that three legged incline still rests in the corner where once I sat, always alone. Through the streaked windows I’d watch the movement below, always something or someone down there in the streets, no matter the hour. The best time for viewing was of course 3AM. The most interesting things happen down there when no one thinks you’re watching. The old bed and bookshelf are the only other items that adorn the space of my rooms, so don’t feel too shy to sit wherever you find yourself. If ever you find yourself here, at all. I’m still not sure whether or not you even really exist. But here you are, listening to me ramble, so can I really say I am alone?
Because time is the real enemy, isn’t it? All my life I’ve been going one direction, beginning to end, but I don’t think time is like that at all. Otherwise how could we record our thoughts like this, pen to paper, and have someone read it even hundreds of years later? So then I say time is like a pool of water, every drop butted up against another so close you can’t tell the difference from one to the next. So I guess, really, no one is ever truly alone, because someone will find you, sooner or later, and rifle through your old belongings, your old life, where once you sat, often alone.