Some times being alone isn't enough

I'm a loner. I consider myself a pretty introvert who tries her darnest to escape her little shell and appear sociable to various folks. But being sociable isn't me. For the majority of my adult life, I have lived alone. With the exception of ten odd months of intense cohabiting with various boyfriends, I have double bolted my apartment door each night and escaped to my lonesome sanctuary for the past fifteen years. And I like it. I like the quiet of the night, and breathing in the intoxicating sense of silence that cannot be replicated with communal living. I was given a choice four years ago when I moved back to Singapore to live in a separate wing of the house with my family or to stay out on my own. It was a no brainer then, and even now I would choose the same. There is nothing that can compare to the true freedom of not being accountable to anyone for that period in the deep of the night where I could smoke a joint, read ridiculous juvenile books, listen to depressing songs or post on this blog.

Yet, I am feeling edgy these days. I find myself all twiddly fingers, tappy feet and all. I can feel it in my bones that being alone isn't enough. Still, I delight in the exquisite pain of melancholy and then, I remember the grey skies of London and Boston and I'm strangely comforted. I have lived through those times and the friendships I had unexpectedly made then have given me the best memories. I will continue as I always have. I will make friends along the way, be as open to new situations and take pleasure in my lonesome self.