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when i was young i never wanted to be alone.

alone meant abandoned. or forgotten about.
or that i was missing out on something.
even worse (in my teenage mind) it meant i wasn’t cool enough to come along.

i wanted loud conversations over pizza and beer,
nightclubs and the throb of a dance beat.
the music meant i was moving, breathing, seeking a partner
so i wouldn’t have to be alone.

and now, i’m rarely alone.

the house is buzzing with tvs, computers, phones vibrating,
words and voices, mostly laughing. sometimes yelling. asking.
and my office is a revolving door of visitors, coworkers;
meetings and multiple personalities.

i long for silence. alone time.
so i can get really crazy – and turn off the tv.
maybe light a candle, and soak in the tub,
listen to electrical hum of the appliances.
deafening silence.

in the silence i can practice my most extreme self care
i don’t have to do or be for anyone else.
i have no expectations of myself.

simply soak my toes,
linger over the words of my book,
listen to the razor sever the hairs on my legs,
breathe deeply. listen to my heart.
not have to answer.

quiet time is about being able to self-soothe
be still. not have to speak. not have to know. not have to be

except there for myself.