Walking Me Home

I am a recluse.

My undergraduate thesis (before I abandoned it) was about medieval anchorites, the lady-nerds of the Middle Ages.   And like these women, I spend a very large portion of my away-from-work time confined to my small studio apartment.  (Granted, it isn’t connected to a cathedral and I’m not bricked into it.  But you see the similarity, right?  RIGHT?!)

There are days where I don’t speak to another living being aside from my textual internet excursions.  Despite how much I love my alone time, I get lonely like anybody else.

So you can imagine how nice it is to have a voice to walk me home every night.  Some nights, that voice feels it’s full three thousand miles away.  And some nights I wake up grasping for the body connected to it.  And sometimes it’s just a voice.  And sometimes it’s just a feeling.  But it’s always comforting.

I wonder, is it worth it to live my life in isolation for the warmth that three words from him can bring?

Yes, yes, and always yes.  However lonely, pathetic, rambling, roaming, facebooking, masturbating, and maddening my days sometimes get, I always know where I can bring my mind to rest at night.

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