It’s Friday night. I’m at home. Beer in hand (most of it sitting in my belly at this point, tbqh). Overthinking life. Standard day in the life of me.
I like when things are quiet and I’m alone. I don’t want the TV buzzing in the background — I don’t even want any music on, no matter how soothing or unobtrusive it might be. I like hearing the little sounds that might otherwise go unnoticed, like the electrical hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen nearby or the wind whistling through a little crack in the window (that I constantly curse in winter — I do not like the cold). I like hearing the sounds that emanate from me: the bones in my neck creaking when I roll my head round for a stretch; the squeak in my throat that escapes when I realise (or don’t) that I’ve been holding my breath for too long.
Alone is always something I’ve liked. Quiet goes along with it. Even if: quiet and alone often means I get in my own way. I’ve known me all my life and I’ve sat with whoever that is in the quiet and alone countless times. But sometimes I still don’t know me at all. There’s a body in this chair that houses a mind and pulls in oxygen and lets out CO2 and it’s all run by this muscle called my heart – the heart that I think to myself has been through a lot but science tells me it’s really all in your brain. Feelings are in the mind. Mind, I don give a shit where it all comes from, the feelings are there and they’re real.
Everything is that much more real when it’s quiet. Maybe a little too real when I’m not alone. So we keep it this way. Me and the quiet, alone. Me, real, but not too much. I like liminal spaces. There, but not quite. Here, but not quite either. The first time I heard the word liminal I latched on and I loved it and I decided: this is where I’ll stay. With my beer and my quiet and alone.
I like that, says me.