One word: isolation. It sings to me, tempting me with grand ideas of uninterrupted time and space. It leans into me, hooks me with quiet fingers and makes me shut the door. Beautiful isolation. Or so I tell myself.
Myself, three hours later, splayed out on the couch with Netflix. Sick to my stomach drowning in unaccomplished goals that weren’t even that important to begin with.
To begin with I was on fire, pacing around my home in caribou flannels, blaring Alanis Morissette, dumb 90s flicks on mute, writing my to-dos. I will practice guitar. I will reorganize cleaning products. I will write a book. I will use oils to paint the cover.
The covers drawn up around my cheeks. I ignore my cell. I watch it ring. I listen to theme songs designated to people. I hate people. I hate callers. If I answer I have to muster enough energy to form syllables, and syllables make words, and words lead to sentences. Dear God, make it stop.
Don’t stop the roll ONTO THE FLOOR, stuck between bed and dresser, legs overhead, kneecaps suctioned into ears. Enough blood in my brain to grab a mat, drive 8 miles. Isolation: shut down.
Shut the door behind. Until I sweat with the loud and the crowded and the lonely. Until public pools form. Until they flow uninterrupted. Until I am not me.