Monday, December 13, 2010
But there are nights when my quirky alone time is just that -- alone. The same house that was quiet and cozy is now way too quiet and just a little uncomfortable and sad. On nights like this I don't feel productive or even wickedly guilty as I page through Facebook for the 29th time. Quite the opposite. My electronic communication device and window on the world somehow looks like nothing more than a gigantic crutch that depend on to make it through the night. My nighttime wardrobe doesn't say "sporty" or "shabby chic" or "retro" or anything else. I'm fairly certain it says "Nobody here to impress," and believe me, I take that directive to heart. True, I'm somewhat warmish, but on nights like this, the last thing I am is content.
Darkness, solitude, and winter combine into a powerful force. It's the dichotomy of this final hour -- one night comforting, the next night crushing. But I do know that whether I'm feeling peaceful and content, or filled with a pervasive sense of melancholy, I am not alone. So, I sit and write -- sometimes silly, sometimes serious -- and look forward to morning.