I like spending time in my own company.
I like listening to the trees rustling outside my window, the way their bodies lie and await the sunrise and rain.
I like the sound of silence. Of my own breathing.
No, I am not lonely.
I am alone.
And from therein I derive my power.
For as long as I can remember, I have loved being alone. I can handle people in doses but I need to head by myself every few hours to breathe my being.
Alone time fills me up. It makes me, me.
I am not afraid of the onslaught of my thoughts. Rather as I sit and watch them talk, I watch myself grow more distant from the jumble. I begin to face my demons. First hesitantly, then, with a little more gusto and charge. Oh, I watch them fall, rise, sneak and whisper sly, and I watch it all with a smile.
The world fades away. There is joy flowing through my body as I simply sit and talk to the clouds, to the sky. I don’t need to do anything at all. All I need is to be okay with being just this; this breath, this body, this heart.
Then there are those things that bring me joy. The feel of paper on my fingertips as I open up a book. The sound of Sufi music flowing through my headphones making my feet thump. Those hours of dancing alone, in front of my mirror. The soft, soft ushering into a story, into the world of imagination that is never too far away. Those penning down of thoughts: rusted, silent, hidden.
Who says being alone equals to being lonely? Who says you can’t be your own balm and your own hero? Who says happiness isn’t something you make, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute in the own realm of your being? Who says time needs to be spent and not treasured, like the slow milling and closing of your eyelashes?
I refuse to let go of this. Of this simple majesty. Of this pure magic.
Wake up, friend. Wake up to the beauty of alone-ness. Wake up to the sound of your own peace.
