Satellite

Solitude, it makes you turn inwards. I live on my imagination. I watch the sun beams fall on the land beneath my window. I sip my coffee and knit a story. In those moments, I am happy and completely contented. Sam visited me last weekend and it was great. We haven’t hung out since we were 17. I’d also forgotten what it was like to be in constant close proximity to another living, breathing, responding human body. The line between reality and fiction is so thin and fragile - it seems that the only way of knowing, or rather, feeling, is if another person can confirm that what you see, hear and touch, really exists. It is there. You are here. When Sam left, there was a cold, stale air of emptiness in the room. It is impossible to truly connect to anything or anyone. Everything is back to how it was. I am still preoccupied with the question of whether what I do make sense. I just can't stand the thought of drifting from day to day, disappearing into monotony, losing reason to fancy in order to escape the dull beats of life.