I Don’t Want Exciting. I Want Boring.
On Chasing Nothing, Letting Go of Everything, and Finding Self
I pace like a ghost around my living room in the dark. The music’s stopped playing. The books don’t hit the same. I’ve watched all the documentaries I can stand. The conversations are draining. The tea’s gone cold. It’s 10:36pm and I should be sleeping, but my mind and my body can’t quite get on the same page these days. Either I’m physically exhausted and mentally wired or physically present but mentally absent. Knew this was coming, but there’s no way to brace for a tsunami when all you’ve got is a small dinghy and a quiet hope.
When I moved three housemates in with me and took over my basement, I joked with friends that I wasn’t going to wear pants for the next two years. But I’ve been fully dressed each day. Dressing nice like I’ve got somewhere to go besides my desk and someone to see besides my bed.
As the bracing chilliness of winter fast approaches, I’ve started wearing my t-shirts and sweatpants. My once-excellent memory is sporting frequent, small holes. Last week, I thought about the pulls I have toward isolating myself. Now, I live in a house with 2.5 more people, yet loneliness is still a frequent companion in some ways.
