I like being alone… I always have. Even as a tiny kid-girl, I’d seek solitude.
Under a table.
Beneath the bed.
Behind the couch.
Covered in blankets, laying in ditches, reading in the long grass.
This is why when I get the feeling of loneliness I am soo confused.
I get restless, illcontent.
Each time the dull air settles in my bones I reach and yearn for some sort of answer.
I feel hungry, asleep. Almost punch drunk and depressed.
Flirting with death, teasing my blood with promises of release.
All I want is to be held in an equal hunger. To be worshipped in innocence, for a moment.
To be glorious!
Kissed with the lips of another seeking the same…..solitude within some silent place within another.
I want to be fucked by a man that I don’t know, that I don’t feel, that I don’t love.
I want to be alone with him.
For a moment.
Just to be alone.
In this delirium I withdraw even more.
This is not allowed.
This would count as irreversible.
My inside shake with the anger at this loss of freedom.
This is where the story sucks.
After hiding in rooms and dousing my desire in lavender oil, the realization that I need something…. It lingers.
This is where I drive to the lonesomest bar I can find….park my pickup….and walk into the musk of old cigarette smoke and perpetual stale spilled beer.
My bootsteps fall to the beat of an Alan Jackson song, and this! This is when I know that I’ve found the right place.
Nursing a beer of my own on the corner stool, I look around….feel around…. My ears open…. And here, I feed, lapping up all of the stories unfolding around me.
Lonely old men by me drinks, and then they speak. They speak of times… wars, college, farms, hiways, deer racks, wives, horses they’ve rode, bikes they’ve wrecked. They tell me lines that have been well used with practice. Lies they’ve told themselves soo often they are truth now. They tell me what they’ve learned…. What they thought they had forgotten.
They are delicious stories of lust and loss… Redemption and damnation. But they remain….Others stories.
Still, I turn them over in my head. Editing, filling in, warping them.
I suck them dry, living them in wakingdream after wakingdream.
But these stories, they are little more than snickers bars, and all I’m left with is a thick high….
I’m hungry again.
I want to bake my own stories again.
Live in the kitchen of my soul again.
Create my own culinary satisfaction again.
Beefy and delicious pot of roast experience and tender potato perspective.
Salads with crisp new cucumber ideas.
Pies made of fresh lessons learned topped in ahhha moments.
Sweet memory tea!
All I’ve got right now is strangers tears in beers and mini wheats.
Warm, Unfrosted and soggy with skim milk.
This cereal/beer diet is getting stale…….
I want a feast!