The Other Side of Lonely

For the most part, living alone is lovely. I get full custody of the remote control. No one's socks but mine are on the floor. If there are dishes in the sink, I put them there.

Sometimes, however, not often, but sometimes the solitude gets so quiet that the internal voices emerge just to fill the vacuum. It's then that regrets and dashed dreams surface like the mist on a bog and hide the path to contentment.

Tonight is such a night.

The woulda, shoulda, couldas have come out to play. They taunt and tease with "the road less travelled." The "why didn't Is" play tag with the "why did Is" scattering crumbs of dissatisfaction and despair in their wake.

On a night like this, I revert to old habits. Movies, books, food. Escape. I cuddle into someone else's story to evade the reality of mine. I plug the soul holes with carbohydrates knowing that it's, at best, a temporary fix.

The problem with old habits is that once we acknowledge their existence they no longer work as escape. Someone else's story is no longer a shelter and carbohydrate mortar is like toothpaste in picture holes decomposing as we watch. The discomfort is still there. It must be addressed, it must dealt with.

Sometimes you have to just ride through the loneliness and come out the other side. Embrace it as a friend. Look it in the face and call it what it is. My reality is that my aloneness is a choice. Most of the time, I am content with my solitude. Just some nights, like tonight, it would be nice to have someone else to talk to besides my demons.