I'm sitting on my porch in the twilight, watching the dwindling crowds from the Pride festivities this weekend. It's been a lonely, quiet weekend during which I mostly slept while people ebbed and flowed under my porch and windows.
I've contemplated numbers of things in between my slumber. A friend called, desperate for distraction from calling somebody else.
Should I continue blogging? If so, what direction should I go in? Should I make an effort to be scientific, to network? Or should I quietly move elsewhere to anonymously put down the secrets that whisper to me in my somnolence, more solitude on top of solitude?
Tomorrow the week will start again, and my day will be filled with chatter and things to be done and these decisions will probably flee until the next quiet weekend. Once the summer haze has dissipated, where will I find myself?
Alone, but only sometimes lonely?
It seems a comfortable state, the path of least resistance. Will I mourn these quiet hours once I am old? When I could have been out dancing, in the bright raiments of youth.