On alone

It's a too-warm evening in NYC, and while walking to the train, a friend says;

"I get tired of being alone."

And it struck me that "alone" is something I used to be quite paralyzed of, and now I find a sort of beatific solace in it.

Alone is different from lonely. From lonesome.

I think when I say alone, I actually mean "through my eyes". I'm sure immediately that makes no sense. 

It's just that, there is no one else who will interpret the stars in the sky the way I do. No one feels the same vibrations in their throat when they sing. These are the things we create and experience when we are alone with ourselves. It is how I recreate the world, it is how I build my story.

I love having time for others, I wind them into my tapestry. This summer, I'm seeing the little flecks of gold, the little flecks of red even being woven in. Coriander, poppy red, surprising colors, scented even. 

I tried to convey these things on a too-warm night, and of course my words jumbled and my jadedness blocked my way. Cause I'm really just a kid, wrapped in a cloak, staring up at the sky.

My friend replied;

"Alone is a strange word."

I should have said "Yes."

But I don't remember if I did.