the unknown soldier

It's strange, this being alone.

I've been alone a lot in my life. Mostly out of choice.

Alone time is precious when you live somewhere where you know people, where everything's familiar, where you go home to someone else being there. It's different when it wraps itslef around you, morning and night, waking up with you, following you down the street, into cafes, through shops and museums, and into your apartment at the end of the day, when you crawl into bed with yourself.

I've never been alone to this extreme.

There are a few people I could call, but my fingers don't seem to want to dial their numbers. One a young man, who I met because he was painting our elevator, is really eager to be my friend and keeps calling me. But I don't feel at ease with him, he gets on my nerves, and there's no right way to say "I don't want to hang out with you." I could call the Columbians, but my energy isn't high enough to keep up with them right now.

And part of me doesn't want to share these days. These precious days where I make plans based on intuition and feel out what I want to do.

I may not be building relationships with those around me, but my relationship with myself is blooming. I'm really trying to find what makes me happy, what brings me down, and what stops me from sleeping at night. I worked against myself for so many years that I'm really trying to make up for it. I want to work with myself. Let myself grow. See what's going on inside my head.

I spent today at the modern art museum in the Georges Pompidou centre. I like modern art because it's incredibly interpretive. I walked around alone, laughing out loud at many pieces. From Picasso's naked woman sprawled on a couch, to a sculpture of a man who would randomly fall forward and clang against a big bell, I couldn't help it. I couldn't help but smile either, everytime something grabbed me, or I saw real Picasso or Matisse hanging on the wall.

Aferwards I walked over an hour to the Pere Lachaise cemetery, blisters forming all over my feet, only to have the guard tell me they were closing. "Vous etes serieux?" I asked, baffled. "Oui, il ferme a 6 heures." What would Jim Morrison say to this? All I wanted to do was give him and Edith Piaf a quick hello, exchange some wisdom, and be on my merry way. But the guard with the large gut said non. So I sat down outside the entrance, applied my last band aids to my blisters, laughed to myself again, and hobbled to the metro.

It's evening now, and I'm in my aparment. Alone. Feet too sore to go anywhere. But atleast I'm in good company.