There is this moment… just before I put on my bedtime modality, as I slip between two inviting ivory sheets… when I feel a hushed and haunting sadness. An unvoiced and sequestered ache. I quietly yearn for someone to lean over and stroke my messy hair. A familiar presence in a shared space to whisper to… cantabile revelations of my nonsensical thoughts and candy-coated dreams. To softly kiss goodnight, and to feel, in turn, the warm and wanting touch of affection on my naked soul. It is in that time, mere minutes, which stretch out into a darkened lacuna, when I am most acutely aware of being alone.
It’s not necessarily agonizing, just poignantly real.
Being alone is a complex notion. I have known people, cohesive and coupled, who have families… husbands and wives, children, parents, pets, an overgrown ivy… with someone lying right by their side every night… and yet they feel entirely isolated.
It’s only now, after years of quiet insularity, have I extinguished a long-lived sense of aloneness. In these past few years, I have managed to share my providential path with special people who happened upon me, and those who were given birth rights to know me (meaning genetically required to love me!).
I discovered that bona fide bonds are formed from times of closeness, and from endowing the Beautiful inside each of us.