manuscriptsandbourbon:

Dancing

I
I am alone but I am not lonely. I could sit for hours by myself and enjoy the company of my arsenal: the journal, the pens, the inkblot pencil, the charcoal, the coffee, even my own pain. My posse consists of the people I watch, the smiles that pass. They are my kinsmen in being alone. My brethren in internal joys.

II
I am not alone but I am lonely. I could be amidst a crowd for hours and still feel detached. Words can’t slice through my skin. Hugs can’t engulf me enough. The strange thing is there’s no reason to be lonely. Perhaps being lonely is being without reason.

III
I am alone and I am lonely. I study the water running under the bridge. Sunlight dances in the water and its reflection ballets on my face. The rusty railing sizzles under my grip. For a moment I imagine what it’d be like to drown. Then I am confronted with the possibility that I may already be drowning.

IV
I am not alone and I am not lonely. The bridge is a million memories away. I understand what it’s all about. There is a cycle here. The trick is to never stop. The workaround is to never settle. Be it an arsenal, a crowd, a bridge. Linger only when needed and move on when it becomes necessary. From the arsenal to the crowd to the bridge. They interchange. They mesh. All I need to do is learn to squeeze through the spaces.

V
I sit for hours and delight in my own company. I stand in a crowd and find reason to smile. I look across the water from the bridge and laugh with the sunlight. I have learned my own cycle. The spaces are my waltz.

[photo: olliereimann]