For two years I lived alone in London. Well... not quite alone alone. I did have flatmates, but they were people I didn't really know or have any sort of social responsibility towards. I kept my space clean, they keep their's clean, and otherwise we had very little to do with each other. It was lovely. I could retreat to my room and just be. Alone in a city of 8.6 million.
And now I'm back in rural North Carolina. You'd think that it would be more peaceful here instead of less. But I'm living with my parents who haven't realized that I'm an adult yet. Don't get me wrong, I love my parents and I'm very grateful that they've let me live with them during my health crisis. But that is just how parents are, I think, mothers especially. I had to sit her down and explain to her that I need my space, and that a locked door wasn't meant offensively, but she didn't quite get it.
|Nighttime on Waterloo Bridge, London|
When I need peace, I have to get out of the house. My mother has an odd quirk: she hates silence, therefore she talks a lot to prevent it. To anyone and everyone; human, animal, and object alike. I've walked in on her in a room where she was alone by herself, still chattering away to no one. She can't sit in a room with someone quietly; she has to talk to them, although the conversation usually only goes one way.
Even sitting in my room with the door shut, I can hear her chattering away at the dog in the kitchen. Always noise, always talking. Never alone.