In fact, I had neved felt more accompanied than in the four walls of this flat. Living with the freedom of doing, writing, reading, painting and talking to everyone via Skype or phone. Without the restriction of having to offer any explanation about every single “strange” detail. Such as having a cup of tea at any time or having an Spanish omelette for breakfast. Leaving my bedroom door open while I sleep; wacking up at daybreak without the bleep of an alarm clock. Painting doodles. Wrapp in a blanket when I get out of bed. Enjoying a warm shower. Studying or writing late. Welcome some friends at home; reading a book together and talking until late. Tie the bike at the front door. Laughing like a teenager. Talking with someone on the phone without having to pay attention to other people that may find it inconvenient. It is amazing the warmth of that company made of pencils, books, computer, tea and heating.
Loneliness is meeting people you have nothing in common with. It is sitting in the company of those who consider each of our decisions a symptom of insanity. It is meeting with that friend of ours who advises us to go to a psychiatrist because we have changed our job once again. He, who has had more than thirty different jobs during his labour life. He, who was once married, then divorced his first partner and then got married again. He, who does not visit the children of his first marriage and insist on adopting children with his second wife.
Solitude is been a victim of discrimination on grounds of race, origin or social position. It is that silly joke about people who were born in a particular place. It is that boyfriend who once tells you that, actually, he is still in love with a teenager whom he never dared to declare to thirty years ago. It is that colleague who casts doubt on our ability at work; it is that boss who takes advantage of their position to revenge against his miserable childhood. It is that dog which decides to urinate right on your shoe.
But at home, in our own four walls, with a cup that smells of raspberry, our feet in slippers, a piece of paper and a box of colors on the table; on my chair, listening to my favourite music and reading my books, there is no solitude at all, but a mere sense of belonging.
I add my photo for the “throw back Thursday”. Palma, July 2006
Copyright Luisa Fernández Baladrón
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