Sitting in a window seat built with me in mind, fingers chalky with dust from beautiful old books, barometers and leaking roofs: this is my grandfather's house.
Stillness, silence: praise the Lord. This is the peace I've been waiting for - where you can hear yourself think, where the loudest sound is the creaking of your box spring each time you breathe, where it is enough to drink tea and listen to Bon Iver and watch the rain.
We are well balanced, the three of us. We all have our little quirks and oddities, but we make each other laugh. And we live in love - that is what matters.
This house seems huge for three people and then I remember that only one lives here, and that makes me sad. Empty spaces filled up by books and music and baskets and pictures, but still empty.
I think about my life, my future life, and how I think I could be fine living on my own. But I don't think I would, for two reasons: 1) the boredom and 2) the loneliness. No one to laugh with, No one to share thoughts and life with. No one to curl up with and be held when the demons come too close. No one to encourage. No one to softly touch so they know you're there. No one to blame. No one to go on walks with down the grey beach on cold and cloudy late spring days. No one to keep the sanity in check. No one to make certain that you sleep and eat. No one to sing along with the piano. No one to call home to. No one to dry the dishes. No one to love.
No, I don't want to live alone: not for the whole of my life, at least. I want someone to care for, and to cared for by someone.