I live a ten minute drive from the airport. My house is just to the right of the flight path. People from all over the country fly by my window every day. If they are seated on the right side of the plane, and looking out the window, they can see a white boxed shaped building with arches above the windows.
Two international flights come in every day, one from London and one from Japan.
All those people passing by my window as I sit at my computer, pour a glass of water in the kitchen, or lounge on the couch reading a book. People moving. People traveling. People living their lives.
I walk to the largest urban park in the country. Visitors from all over the world pass by me. I hear languages I can’t identify. I see tour groups where the leader holds up a flag so no one gets separated from the group. I pass by museums, a koi pond, and a plaza. People are so close I could reach out and touch them, but I don’t.
Last week I read an article by a woman with schizophrenia. She wrote about being in love with her loneliness. I read the words again and again in understanding and recognition.
Some symptoms get worse with age.
Today, I am off to a celebration. My computer will be waiting for me. Books will be stacked, bookmarked, or spread open. The room will be the same as when I left it.
When I return I won’t speak to anyone for ten hour stretches. The sound of planes will keep me company. I will see tourists exploring the park. I will read, and I will write.
I will live in the world of my mind, and yes, I will experience the love of loneliness.