Living the Deam

I always knew that I would love living alone. And now that I have for quite a while now, my mother knows it too. It scares her, I should scare me too I guess.

I love being able to hear my thoughts, I love being able to listen to music when I want to. Being able to breathe deeply, to read without interruptions, to look at the stars, to think. To live without hearing someone else’s voice, without sharing my space with someone else. I can’t stand to have someone around me for a long time. It’s not like I do bizzare stuff while I am alone (like walk around naked; case in point P) I do mundane things, like work on the computer, read a book. And when I am doing these boring things in my room and you do happen to walk by, even quietly; I will consider it an intrusion. I have seen that if I don’t get to spend a significant amount of time alone, I turn into a raging ogre in a few days. No kidding. And that should scare me. It doesn’t. What scares me are people who can’t stand to be alone.