I invited friends to come to my house for dinner last night. It was a great time. We shared stories, laughed, and joked, and ate beans with cornbread and green salad. For dessert we had blueberry cake. After socializing, we said good night and went our separate ways.
It felt nice to entertain company, to enjoy companionship with friends, and have good conversation. Last night, things flowed in a smooth, unhindered way. There were no elephants in the room, no overwrought feelings of emotional upheaval, just four people enjoying being around one another.
I am a strange creature. At times, I love being social, like last night. I tend to talk too much, but what else is new? Then, on days like today, I’m reclusive. I’m at home, locked in my library, tapping at the keys, and listening to the incessant humming of my tinnitus.
That latter description is the true me. I’m most comfortable at home, in my pjs, playing with Chunk, talking with mum, typing up stories, and avoiding anything to do with ‘real life.’ Furthermore, I avoid ‘news’, ‘trends’, and ‘topics’ that lead to ‘heated exchanges of ideas’ or ‘discussions’ i.e., ‘arguments.’
There’s enough meanness in the world without me adding to it. As such, I keep a low profile, and try to minimize my social media footprint. Often, I wish to master the art of vanishing, not unlike a ninja or Bigfoot, and slink away into the nether of yesteryear.
Normally, that wouldn’t phase me, except I am a writer. Writers are by their very nature, reclusive, isolated, and socially awkward. Even at large events we’re most comfortable away from the crowd.
To think when I was younger, fifty is fast approaching and I can’t stop it, I lived for the limelight. I dreamt of fame and all the perks it would bring. Love, fashion, money, mansions, and expensive super-cars. I would own a thousand-acre farm with racing horses on it and would sell breeding rights the way hot dog vendors sell their merchandise at baseball games. Now, all I want is a bit of isolation, a laptop-now I want a desktop-and some quiet time to think and write. Except I have most of those things, and my wants have changed since last night.
I want to experience love and the anguish it brings, companionship and the fragility of trust. Except, I am unwilling to risk it all for love without a safety net, a crew of firefighters, and a fully stocked ambulance team nearby to render aid in the event of an emergency.
Buying a desktop is the least risky of any of this, so I’ll probably do that and say forget the rest. Sigh. It’s not an either/or kind of world. You can have both things and live life to the fullest-apparently, I can’t-but normal folks can.
I suppose in the end, I will do what I’ve always done. When the mood strikes, I’ll act in a sociably acceptable manner, hang out with friends, go out to eat, watch a movie or read a book, and wait until my true nature calls me home.
Then, I will giddily slip on my pjs, sip some coffee, wiggle my toes, sit down at my computer, and make up worlds where the good guys always win, corruption is vanquished in a dazzling, firestorm of justice, victims recover, and I own a thousand-acre stable of well-fed racing horses.
Or something like that.
Be safe out there in the ‘real world.’