Loneliness

Lost again, I often find myself seeking refuge before the familiarity of this hearth. Its fire burns always just too hot for comfort, though I prefer its warmth to the seeming emptiness outside. My ears soon grow accustomed to the steady crackle of the hungry flames licking ever-closer to my heavy blankets, and as I lay curled into myself on the hard floor, I find the idea of leaving becomes increasingly upsetting, somehow. The longer I consider the weather outside—ever worsening, surely—the more the fire's painful heat seems to dull, and the stone beneath my shoulder softens. It's really not so uncomfortable as I first thought. I realize I could shelter here forever, and as I begin to ponder the notion I feel I may have already decided to stay.

A few years later, I can't imagine what it used to be like before I lived here. There is no home so inviting or permanent as loneliness, I think to myself contentedly, as I continue to carefully fill my new life with things to distract me from any discontentment that might threaten my stoic resignation. I sweep the entry and straighten my welcome mat, then check the locks on the door and ensure the shades are fully drawn – making sure not to accidentally look out the windows, wisely wary of dangerous remembrances that might be lurking outside. I set the table for guests, and eat comfortably alone, every night. As I wait for the knock at my door that I know should be coming any time, now, I dust my picture frames, never noticing they are empty. I turn down the volume on my phone before I go back to sleep, in case someone calls. It's been a good day, I think. Tomorrow, if it's not too cold outside, I might chop some firewood – but, on second thought, I still have plenty left inside. I should probably just use up the fuel I have, first. If I didn't know better I'd swear it replenishes itself, somehow.