The way alone works is slight and mischievous. It causes doubt, denial, and ultimately self-degradation. It's so amazing how something so singularly placid can be the spark that lights the metaphorical fireworks factory of emotion and bleakness. Why is it, then, that it is when I am alone that I feel most at ease, embracing the denial and worthlessness, walking along the same broken sidewalks I used to frequent when I was a boy of fifteen?

The way the moon shone through the dusty windshield must have been it. There is no other explanation for that feeling--that complete longing for a hug or a care from anyone I may have known. I wanted to hear a voice, I wanted to see a face; the clanking machinations of thought processes didn't help a bit. Striving for some sort of insight, a divine intervention from the god of my emotions, the dark scenery faded whitely gray. And then I just wanted Her.

It has been so long since I have seen Her in such a way, as if standing behind, watching the eclipse that formed when She passed in between the light of premonition my weighted legs. The figure seemed more holy than any lesson from The Book and more real than any slit of the wrist. Since that moment, I have been writing in the imperfections surrounding my perfect world, floating like a fetus in the limbo of limbo, neither here nor there, and certainly not anywhere.

To answer myself and take the burden off of any stander-by who might care to make a guess, a feeble stab in the dark, I think the reason is simple and straightforward--the convolutions are better left to sophists, anyway. When I am alone, I can be anywhere, and when I am anywhere, I am with Her, standing gently by, smiling; I am inside Her, feeling the single beat of one love, a tireless cellists plucking a low G sharp to the pulse of a perfect love; and I am watching Her as She makes monumentally insignificant decisions about who She is, why She is, and what She ultimately wants out of Her own time alone.