Alone time

I was in something of a melancholy funk last night. Not melancholy as in "the world hates me and I want to die," but melancholy as in pensive and serious. In the mood for poetry. As luck would have it, the Helen Vendler reader from my Poetry 101 class in college happened to be sitting on my bookshelf.

I read poetry for several hours, something I haven't done in years. It made me want to write. I wanted to write about hope and love and loneliness and need, but mostly about hope.

For the first time in a long time, I thoroughly enjoyed occupying my tiny, sad excuse of a bedroom, laying naked as the day I was born, pen in hand (and sometimes in mouth), and alone with my thoughts, no sound but the gentle buzz of a fan and my mind's echo.