2:56am. In my bed at the South end of my apartment. Out the window, through wind-dancing trees I see the moon flicker so near to civilization, seemingly touching it, that I mistake it for something manmade, too. I wonder why she reaches down to us, so ugly compared with her. I have fresh sheets on the bed, one of my favorite feelings in all of life, and the light quilt I’m using was made by my great grandmother. It is thin with use and has some holes, but its colors are still vivid, and most importantly it maintains its beautiful smell no matter where it lives. Its smell is one of the most real I know. Halfway the smell of my parents’ linens during my childhood, which combines Chinese laundry (to me, always a steamy, rich smell) and something innately “them” that came from the apartment I grew up in and left when I was 12, and halfway the smell of something old but loved, which is somehow a specific smell. Some things smell old and unloved, but not this blanket. My cats are acting half wild, calling out to each other as they bang around my kitchen. I feel very, very alone. I always do, and I don’t know why. I am not lonely anymore, as I was through my teens and even into my early 20s. Then I would long for someone to be with, and feel scared. Now I only feel alone, which is different, although I don’t know how exactly. Perhaps it’s that so little of my life is relevant to anyone but myself. Too much time- for years- spent alone. And I don’t have a mind that says “relish this alone time,” “spoil yourself,” “bask in your ‘you’ time,” ….I have a mind that says “I am so boring when I’m alone.” “What is life when you’re alone?” “I need someone else around in order to be interesting enough to care about.” And so I sit alone and can appreciate things around me but cannot bask in ME, because what does it mean to be “me” when there is no context with which to define myself. The cats used to help, but they don’t in that way anymore, although I still love their little faces and love petting them. I used to be scared of the dark. I am not anymore, but I still dread (every single night) turning the last light off and waiting for my eyes to adjust so I’m not in pitch black. This and many other things makes me feel weak. Weaker than I already feel for hating being alone so deeply. And it’s most troubling because I know I’m not really weak. I’m strong and hard. So if I am so strong and so hard, and still get scared to turn off lights, and still feel empty whenever I’m alone…how must everyone else feel? And that saddens me as much as relieves me. And now I can’t see the moon at all anymore, and I wonder if it’s because the trees stopped dancing, or because (oh please, no!) it wasn’t the moon to begin with and I was right to call its bluff. 3:23am in my bed at the South end of my apartment. And still no cats in bed with me. And still not ready to close the computer and lose the last glow.
