I think houses are salvaged by windows thrown open and the sounds of laughter and good music ringing through the rooms. I’m impatient with my interest and awkward in prolonged company but complete isolation depresses me. I think I would be happiest left alone with a book in a room, balcony, staircase, windowsill, corner of the terrace with a party going on next door, content in the knowledge that people I know are having a good time but not quite requiring to circulate. I never really can decide if I am a people lover or a recluse. I enjoy people but sometimes I think I enjoy them only as a concept, in my own time and at my own pace, like people in the books. Sometimes, that’s not really a bad thing.
People in my house have always known how to leave each other alone while miraculously never quite losing track. (Sometimes, that’s not really a bad thing.) The miraculousness of it strikes me more and more with every day I spend in the ‘outside world’, with its elaborate rituals of calling-backs, returning visits, replying emails and the constant terrifying back-and-forth, back-and-forth of everything. I want to lie down in a field of long grass in the rain with my eyes tight shut to the world and my iPod plugged into my ears except that I’m sure that the rain will ruin the iPod and my maid will complain about mud on my clothes and Ma will chase me about for days with gentle reproach and cloying cough syrup and these nagging fears with never let me drown in peace. Why do we always have to come back to reality, why?
I also have to finish cleaning my room which has been only half cleaned which means everything from the shelves has been crashed down on the floor. *Sigh* and *sigh*.