Sunday

1

If it weren't for the constant, rhythmic sound of my Vans against the pavement, I may have stopped walking by now. My other excuse is that nothing's given me a reason to stop. Nothing to cut my wandering short; nothing compelling me to sit and put my pad and pen to good use whilst fighting the breeze's grudge against the paper. This is a certain wandering that I find myself doing often. When I leave the house, I may have a destination in mind; I may not. Sometimes I set out to find a specific place to calm the mind that rushes like a river. Sometimes I seek a park bench to sit and reconcile with my pad and pen. Sometimes I go to see if the great oak down the street has sheltered any new birds' nests. And sometimes, I just walk.

The sound, I decide, is sturdy and somewhat comforting. I walk at a steady pace, and while the cool, overcast midday is relatively quiet, I notice that the birds and the breeze flowing through the trees and the pebbles which I stop every oh, so often to kick into the road, and all the sounds, together, rejoice. Married to the rhythm of my Vans, I become part of a song-governed by nature's organic syncopation.

As it's Sunday, all classes are off and I have time to take a rare, midday walk to nowhere in particular. I'm alone here, though I don't mind it. I don't consider myself to be absolutely alone. My thoughts are here with me, and my pad and pen. My conscience is here. The birds and the rustlings of some lazy zephyr through the leaves, they're both here. And of course, the sound of my walking. I'm not alone here. I'm merely without company.

Of course, I think, that brings forth a certain question, which would be whether or not one can feel lonely without being "alone".

I decide that it's possible, though I don't align myself with it quite yet. Maybe it's not loneliness that I feel; maybe it's emptiness, or hollowness, or purposelessness. I don't want to feel as if I'm lonely, because those who are lonely tend to seek company-which I'm not. I'm seeking nothing. I'm only in search of mental clarity, and maybe some creative inspiration.

As if I haven't defied myself enough yet, when I look down to my notepad, I see the title I'd drawn for it: Alonely

I'm really not all that artistic. The notepad is essentially for writing, save for when I get writer's block. And when that happens, I go out, and let the inspiration find me.

As I walk past the great oak down the street, I see a heart carved into the bark, with two initials in the middle, and I'm hit with a sudden, strong dose of sonder. I hope that couple is still together.

Such a subtle mark of amity, of adolescent companionship, is something I've always been attracted to. Puppy love, in and of its innocent self, tends to be missing from the modern-day romance story. And it only makes sense that, if these romances are so lustrous and stickily infectious to read, and to watch the young mind connect in all it's awkward charm with another, then they must be the prized fruit on the tree of social relations. It makes me wish I'd felt it for myself.

Sigh. Yes, I decide, I'm lonely.

I assume my legs have reached their destination once they bring me to a playground and seat me down on a park bench. It's cold. My body becomes tense.

Upon opening my notebook, the presumably light breeze quickly flips through the pages, blowing some loose papers and notes out! I stand up hastily and begin chasing the airborne notes as they flutter like drunken butterflies.

"Noo, no no," I mutter to myself as I prance, trying to retrieve them. Some are blowing further, and I shriek after them.

And then suddenly, I hit the ground with a thud. I must've bumped into something.