Living Alone

I remember moving into this house 30 years ago and thinking I was living alone. I wasn’t sure I was capable of survival.

Eight years before that I lived with my wife and the turmoil of an early marriage. Before that I lived at home, venturing out for a year but still connected in the same city, supplying comfort and support.

So here I am, 30 years later, living alone.

What does that mean?

For most, it would be a dream. Do whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it. Sounds good?

I remembered 30 years ago, I settled into this abode, setting up areas for recreation and creation, but sucked myself into bland television and drugs. I would have spiral down into the abyss, but I still had to work and pay off piles of bills. Responsibility overrode decadence. Besides, I had my mother to take care of.

My father had died a year before, creating havoc and tension that would not subside. Between the stress of work – a fading marriage – and a crazy mother, something had to give.

So here I am, 30 years later, living alone.

Like a culturing pearl within a shell, all the comforts of home and pleasure are immediately available. All the toys I can imagine are within reach and plenty of room to move freely, but it not what I expected.

The quiet is deafening. Time has little meaning, except for the seasons.

To have unlimited possibilities, without another’s input or rejection is daunting.

There is no one to ask, “What do YOU need today?” or “Where would YOU like to go?” or “What would YOU like to do?” or even “What do YOU think?”.

I stand at the gate in my orange jump suit, waiting for the door to open for exercise period.