I’ve spent the last two weeks by myself at my parents’ house in Normal while they’re in Europe, and it’s difficult for me to express how wonderful and restorative this time has been. I’ve spent every possible moment outdoors, being amazed by trees and planning to murder chipmunks and in general having a delightful if not bittersweet relationship with all this SPACE that I can’t typically enjoy.
And not to mention solitude. Glorious, beautiful solitude. I’ve seen some people, sure, but it’s been mostly sparse and occasional and that has been amazing. I think I’ve surmised that my perfect balance of solitude and social life is…being completely alone, and seeing other people for an hour or two every two days.
So much yes.
Now, then, a follow-up questions for myself: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING LIVING IN NEW YORK CITY?
Ugh! I don’t know! There are good things about it. Certainly I’m busy and active and when I’m in the thick of it I don’t really think much about how I would ideally enjoy something between 22-24 hours of solitude each day! It’s a really vigorous and does have this tendency to at least make me feel like I’m alive and IN IT, which is kind of nothing like solutide. It’s not really until I leave the city that I start to think about it way too much and then realize that it’s really hard and I…honestly don’t know how much longer I can do it.
This has been such a unique and amazing time that the very idea of returning to the city feels…sad. Upsetting. Traumatic.
There we are.