There were so many days of my life where the need to be alone became
near-indomitable. It was for all these
noticed flaws, so flippant of the eloquence we can all achieve with our given
minds, and that crossed my arms for me,
pushed me a step or two away from a gathering, rendered my pupil in contact
with an open eyelid, exercised the ill-filtered appendage called sarcasm
(devoured and cultivated many years ago).
For every raconteur’s tale, for every forced reaction; the need to
hide your own neurosis and feign support for the whims of others. For every
silence in small-talk, every instance where the chance to say “And how are
you?” was lost. For the contemptible need of others to remember the trivial in
an audible train of thought that drains minutes from my patience. I was for all
of these that I realised I could not be with those who I was supposed to love.
Quite willingly, I had confined myself within a cage, the key to which I kept
to myself whilst letting others change the outside lock.
Which is why I was surprised when I heard a knock.
The rain pelted down in rattling cascades, and squally winds added a
cinematic sort of drama to what should have been a setting positively English
with isolated drabness. Like any other summer evening, I lit a fire and hoped
that I would one day find it cosy, or have some indomitable command over me
that forced a book to open on my lap. It would preferably be a book over which
my floundering intellect could flounder some more, but at least I would be able
to say that I read it, should anybody ever ask.
Three infirm raps at the door that I first assumed to be the wind
came to my attention. I opened the door ajar and saw, amidst an ashen
waterproof hood, a shriveled face with features felled by weariness. I’m not
sure if it was he who requested it or his facial expression, but for the first
time in over 20 years I had a visitor in the house.
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