The comforts of home alone
Is it strange that if I could imagine a perfect day, I would alone be in my shabby house, on my creaky porch, or in my room, surrounded by cats, books, and magazines? There’s something so comforting about burrowing in your own space, having sole discretion for directing the traffic of minutiae that could come our way.
Now, I don’t live alone, but in the quiet stolen moments I relish nothing more than being in that space. Would more people choose solitariness over being surrounded by loved ones? Or are they afraid to seem lonely? Or worse, afraid to seem to enjoy alone-ness over company?
Is alone better than sharing space with less than appreciated company? Or am I merely selfish and/or delusional?