||[Jun. 14th, 2006|11:46 pm]
Scribite -- Write, you!
(Urgh. I need to stop putting these off until the very last moments of the day. They inevitably end up sleepy and pretentious.)|
Solitude sounds like two crickets chirping to the hum of the computer fans and the gentle swish of air through the room. It's soft, but incessant, and penatrating. Occasionally whisps of companionship drift through the cold walls between seven and ten in the evening, but Solitude remains, inpenetrable. It is opening the fridge and seeing five opened cans, half empty. Kidney beans, pineapple, split-pea soup, canned chicken and tomatoes face the door like a police line-up of suspected meals. When were they eaten? Will they ever be finished? Probably not. Saran wrap half-heartedly drapes over the open tops, a wishful shield against rot and decay.
Solitude is having the power go out, and missing the lights more than anything else. Solitude hasn't named the lights yet, but might soon.
Solitude is more than lonely and less than alone. Solitude has the lights (which could soon be named April and June) and the harmonizing crickets and an old voicemail that's been on the cellphone for months now. Solitude presses seven to re-save the message.