This is the 333rd post on this little blog of mine. I should make it something spectacular. I should make everything spectacular, but I end up making everything ordinary, which in and of itself is spectacular. The ordinary is extraordinary and so forth. So, let's go forth with this post.
Alone. I know how to be alone. I like being alone. I prefer to be alone. But I also like having the constant reassurance that I don't have to be alone if I don't want to be. Call it selfish - because it is. I keep people in my back pocket, so to speak, and convince myself that they will always be there in a moment's notice when being alone gets a little too lonely. Well, lately I have noticed that this system of mine is imperfect. People have their own lives, too, you know. They aren't frozen in time just waiting for me to press a button telling them to come alive and validate me. They have their own messes. They have their own places to be, they have their own places to leave. They have their own longings and fears and phobias and desires. They don't owe me a thing; they don't owe me their undivided love and attention.
But that's still what I crave - love and attention. It is cliche, almost, to say such a thing. It is so obvious. We all crave these things, right? We all want to be reminded, over and over and over again, that we exist, that we are permanent, that we will never go away. We don't want others to go away, either. Stay! I beg silently. Stay. They never will; we never will. And that's the way it's always been (the only thing that is permanent is impermanence, after all) and that's the way it should be. 333.