If I were a Hermit
I can hear the water in the pipes. I can hear everything in the house from this room.
Sometimes it makes me feel empowered, sometimes it just infuriates me.
These walls are too white and perfect. I want to paint and write . . . I want to desecrate them.
They're not very friendly walls today. I stare at them and it's like they're staring back.
I demand a lack of sentience in my walls. Anything else is unacceptable.
I feel uncomfortable in these clothes. I want the luxury of living alone and walking about nude.
I'd shave my head every day. I'd buy a cat and a dog and a grow-your-own-best-friend,
and be content with myself the way I feel good, not the socially acceptable version.
I'd keep company with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, Brian's candle, and a handful of chocolate truffles.
I'd sing in the shower. I'd scream at the top of my lungs when I faked martial arts moves at the mirror,
and no one but me would care what the scale said (low or high), or what I'd worn the day before (nothing).
I'd eat whatever or whenever I want - overeating or undereating - and no one would be around to nag or pressure me.
I could go without answering my phone for days, months, years even.
I could work from my closet, shunning the sun and sending out for groceries.
Whenever I was depressed or pissed off, I could cry until my nose bled without worrying someone would
come in and not understand - sometimes you need to embrace the sorrow to get over it.
I could brood to my heart's content, and make a million paper cranes.
I'd take a picture of my feet every day, develop it myself, and line the bathroom walls with mug shots.
I could pretend I was Amy Brown or Leo Da Vinci - have delusions of grandeur to my heart's content.
No one will tell me to makes something of myself when I so do not want to.
I'll play the mandolin, badly, and sing like a rockstar, laughing when I remember a year and some of voice lessons, but occasionally I'll still do opera for Kelli's sake.
I won't smoke or drink, but I'll get a tattoo . . .
and every year I'll add to the tally line counting the time since Brian's death.
I'll take long baths and longer walks in the middle of nowhere, and magically be able to pay my bills.
I'll never have to face anyone I don't want to. I'll never overcome my fears, and I'll be content with that.
I won't have to explain to anyone and get frustrated when they don't understand.
I'll write terrible fiction that only I love. I'll laugh at motivation, and change my mind a million times a day.
When I cry and sulk and bitch about life and the male species, my cat and dog and grow-your-own-best-friend will love me anyway. I'll read my scribblings to my pets and grow-your-own-best-friend. They'll applaud politely without trying to stroke my ego. They'll laugh in all the right spots, especially the cat.
I'll sleep from six AM to noon, and stay up as late as I please.
The internet will be my only social obligation.
If I were a hermit, I could be whatever I wanted . . . a gay man, a lesbian, a rockstar, a freaking dragon . . .
and like the tree in the forest or the cat in the box, no one could know for sure that it wasn't true. I could define my own reality, people. Who'd be there to say I . . . wasn't . . . a man, huh? My grow-your-own-best-friend? Hardly.
I could say a dozen insane things before breakfast.
See? It would be a HEDONIST'S life. Don't say you can't imagine doing it too.
Maybe in another dimension, another lifetime, another reality.
Maybe I'd be a hermit.
/ M
Sometimes it makes me feel empowered, sometimes it just infuriates me.
These walls are too white and perfect. I want to paint and write . . . I want to desecrate them.
They're not very friendly walls today. I stare at them and it's like they're staring back.
I demand a lack of sentience in my walls. Anything else is unacceptable.
I feel uncomfortable in these clothes. I want the luxury of living alone and walking about nude.
I'd shave my head every day. I'd buy a cat and a dog and a grow-your-own-best-friend,
and be content with myself the way I feel good, not the socially acceptable version.
I'd keep company with floor-to-ceiling shelves of books, Brian's candle, and a handful of chocolate truffles.
I'd sing in the shower. I'd scream at the top of my lungs when I faked martial arts moves at the mirror,
and no one but me would care what the scale said (low or high), or what I'd worn the day before (nothing).
I'd eat whatever or whenever I want - overeating or undereating - and no one would be around to nag or pressure me.
I could go without answering my phone for days, months, years even.
I could work from my closet, shunning the sun and sending out for groceries.
Whenever I was depressed or pissed off, I could cry until my nose bled without worrying someone would
come in and not understand - sometimes you need to embrace the sorrow to get over it.
I could brood to my heart's content, and make a million paper cranes.
I'd take a picture of my feet every day, develop it myself, and line the bathroom walls with mug shots.
I could pretend I was Amy Brown or Leo Da Vinci - have delusions of grandeur to my heart's content.
No one will tell me to makes something of myself when I so do not want to.
I'll play the mandolin, badly, and sing like a rockstar, laughing when I remember a year and some of voice lessons, but occasionally I'll still do opera for Kelli's sake.
I won't smoke or drink, but I'll get a tattoo . . .
and every year I'll add to the tally line counting the time since Brian's death.
I'll take long baths and longer walks in the middle of nowhere, and magically be able to pay my bills.
I'll never have to face anyone I don't want to. I'll never overcome my fears, and I'll be content with that.
I won't have to explain to anyone and get frustrated when they don't understand.
I'll write terrible fiction that only I love. I'll laugh at motivation, and change my mind a million times a day.
When I cry and sulk and bitch about life and the male species, my cat and dog and grow-your-own-best-friend will love me anyway. I'll read my scribblings to my pets and grow-your-own-best-friend. They'll applaud politely without trying to stroke my ego. They'll laugh in all the right spots, especially the cat.
I'll sleep from six AM to noon, and stay up as late as I please.
The internet will be my only social obligation.
If I were a hermit, I could be whatever I wanted . . . a gay man, a lesbian, a rockstar, a freaking dragon . . .
and like the tree in the forest or the cat in the box, no one could know for sure that it wasn't true. I could define my own reality, people. Who'd be there to say I . . . wasn't . . . a man, huh? My grow-your-own-best-friend? Hardly.
I could say a dozen insane things before breakfast.
See? It would be a HEDONIST'S life. Don't say you can't imagine doing it too.
Maybe in another dimension, another lifetime, another reality.
Maybe I'd be a hermit.
/ M