That flying feeling

Being in buxton alone has been fantastic. Being alone, period, has been fantastic. I think every so often I really need to get away from the world and people and check into a hotel room in a randomly chosen unfamous town, becoming nameless and disconnected, and disappearing from the face of the earth. I get that flying feeling when i’m all alone, without my family nor my friends, in a town where nobody knows my name and where i can do basically whatever i want and get away with it, without being judged unnecessarily, without being nagged at, without anybody telling me to do or to not do anything. i can wear mascara for nobody in particular, i can bathe five times a day, i can turn the heat all the way up and loll about in bed in shockingly little clothes, i can stay in all day and read with an obligingly continuous supply of horlicks/vodka, i can even read on the crapper without feeling embarrassed. last winter while i was doing the same in ithaca (i.e. staying in the hotel literally all day) the cleaning lady had to rap on my door to chase me out of the room so she could clean. i remember spending hours in the tub with my bath salts, slowly wrinkling into a prune under the strains of bach’s cello suites. i remember exfoliating. i remember sleeping for 10 hours a day.

perhaps the best part about solitude is being completely unaccountable to anyone. where you become truly you, the you you would be were there nobody watching or judging, the you you would be when you don’t have to give a damn about anybody’s opinions, the you you would be when all the world is blind and deaf; there are no senses, but there are also no judgments passed because nobody can tell anything apart.

I am a beautiful, fleeting stranger in a sea of unknowns. You ask me who I am, and I tell you, I give you the most honest answer I have to give, more real than any answer I have ever given, not even to my friends or my family- because I will never see you again.


Un pensiero su “That flying feeling


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