I’m sitting here listening to the rain and wondering where everyone is. It’s so silent. My tiny village seems to be deserted. It’s just the rain quietly tapping on the roof, asking if I’m alone. It’s a Friday afternoon, a drizzly grey mess. Where is everyone?
When I was younger, I was always chasing something more. There was always something more; I mean, there had to be something more. This couldn’t be all there was. I was always looking for the place to be: a party, an event, a festival, someone’s house, a gathering. But then I would get there and everyone would be just wasting time, wondering what else there was to do. Hanging out at someone’s house was just another way of killing time and not being alone. And in the end, that was just it: nobody wanted to be alone. So they all got together to be less lonely. And time passes and we get older, and generally we care less about being somewhere because we’ve realised that there actually is nowhere worth going.
And now I’m sitting here in my house, two months I’ve been by myself now, generally enjoying the isolation, and I’m just sitting here listening to the rain and maybe feeling a bit lonely. Wondering where everyone else is.