Home Alone.
It has been a few days, perhaps a week already since I decided to sit back in the village while all my friends travel home on holiday. I have no real excuse for not wanting to be home but I do not deny that I can make up a handful if I wanted to.
For the first few days, I worried less about anything and frankly anyone. Then the next few days were filled with withdrawals as I shockingly began to miss everything and everyone. I battled with a sense of being alone, a glaring emotion of being away from the magic of everyone.
The experience has evolved sweetly. Whenever I missed one, I called one. Whenever I wanted to be mischievous alone, I was mischievous alone.
Being alone I let myself dazzle back to old gentle memories, reliving sweet memories and falling back to old notes in a journal beside me mat.
I have found music to be particularly comforting — soft music. I don’t have any money so I can’t enjoy the luxury of wine and the evening breeze while I reminisce of a live lived and dream of one to be lived. I don’t need any money.
Reflecting before drifting to sleep, orchestrating quarrels and wishing to wake up to the sunlight sit by my window pane has been most of my desires over the days. Points of conscious living within and beyond my control.
I am happy. Content also not complacent. I am just where I want to be to see myself how I truly am — alone.
I have thought of many magical things over the days, dreadful things in fact. I have drowned my ears with the noise of many opinions (over the Nigerian Presidential elections mostly) while losing myself slowly to a young man who sees himself outside himself.
There are still a handful of days before my friends return from their holidays and find me with my hair all grown out, my eyes deepened inside my skull yet with my smile sitting comfortably on my chin.
I have no profound conclusion that I have discovered during this period except being alone in old age could be devastating to the mind — but equally gratifying to those looking to find something inside the ordinary.
Now, I read, write, listen to music, curate playlists, sing alone, walk, see sights of interests and pray to dream of anything beautiful one night at a time — while hoping I wake up again with the sun over my eyes.
I am home. Alone.
