The strings of the bow stroke the strings of the violin until their cry soothes the plucking vibrations of the Spanish guitar. ¬†Smooth. ¬†Sounds of another world – a fantasy life – bouncing off cream-colored walls.
Candles flicker and dance in appreciation to my music and give off romantic scents and dreams of their own.
I participate in this world by adding the beat of heavy jeans in the drum of my dryer; the swish of sheets rotating in my washer.
I am proficient in the art of being alone.
On cloudy, rainy days such as today, my defense against the gloom is the flipping on of too many light switches. ¬†I pick a surface to scrub, knowing I am the only one who will notice my effort. ¬†I comfort myself by sinking my hands in hot, soapy water. ¬†I ignore the dust in the corner that keeps the spider company as she expands her web. ¬†Today, I’m tired of fighting with both of them.
I will sink further into myself and put pen to page.
I will extend my world by scanning the lives of others displayed in full color on a bright computer screen.
I will read the works of other writers, amazed at their skill in saying what is in their heart.
I’ll formulate lists, assemble supplies, cook a meal, and wait.
Later, someone will ask what I did today. ¬†I will struggle for an answer. ¬†Busy? ¬†Yes. ¬†Although, does anyone¬†really¬†want to hear about a day like mine?
My heart is constantly dreaming. ¬†I get tired just from thinking of all it plans; wondering how much this middle-aged woman can accomplish in what time she has left. ¬†“Follow your heart‚Ä¶”, they say. ¬†I would, but my heart is filled with wanderlust and can’t seem to make up its mind!
So‚Ä¶another day of alone; another day dancing like no one is watching‚Ä¶because no one is; of singing loud because no one is listening; of talking to myself while dreaming of conversations I hope to have later with someone else and in those dreams, I won’t stutter or cast down my eyes like I do in real life…a result of spending too many years perfecting the art of being alone.