On Living Alone...

Italian Apartment
Italian Apartment 2
You get used to silence, to the sound of your own breathing.
Sometimes the emptiness is overwhelming and you have to lie on the floor and talk to yourself just to make sure you're still real and have a voice.
There's a lot of spontaneous dancing, a lot of candles, a lot of music.
The radio is my friend.
I smile at myself in the mirror a lot.
I sleep with the light on.
I sit on the windowsill and peer out at my neighbours, trying to work out whether they're a potential threat or a friend and whether they've just seen me dancing around the room in my underwear.
There is space to think the deep, hard thoughts that sit right in the middle of your head, the ones that only come to the surface with time and opportunity. 
I'm writing a lot.
I'm REALLY listening to music, mulling over lyrics and melodies, wondering how they sit with my soul.
I'm caught in the middle of my introvert and extrovert self: desperately, achingly lonely yet very content with myself and my thoughts.
I'm not sure which I prefer, but right now that doesn't matter. I am alone, there's no point fighting or wishing for something else.

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