I thought I’d tell you about the cocoon of routine, how it’s like space exploration, predictable in its mathematical equations, however dangerous because you can’t calculate for meteors that come flying past your ear. But you’re too smart to succumb to the idiosyncratic impulse for control, like trying to count to ten to delay the orgasm building in you.
I’m floating. Nothing comes close to touching me; my skin has an invisible force field and everything bounces off. Nothing anyone says connects with the heart that beats and the liver that quivers inside me.
I’m solitary, a long river with cities on either side.
There are tributaries that can drag you away from the mulish river: yoga classes, clubs, language lessons, and if you have a young one, there is the P-T-A. If you’ve been an expat long enough, it’s easy to pick up the trail of those who came before you.
I blame the writing. A writer is forced by her profession to spend an inordinate amount of time alone. And I have been very productive this year. Though it would be disingenuous of me not to admit that I am, by nature, a bit of a recluse; you wouldn’t know it as I’m both gracious and gregarious; still I am in love most of all with my own company and time spent even with dear friends is time I’m keen to win back.
I can never really complain about being lonely. It is not an immutable state, it can change as quickly as tomorrow.
Art by Micrito LaNiñaPollo.