Hiding places there are innumerable, escape is only one, but possibilities of escape, again, are as many as hiding places. Franz Kafka
I’ve taken to squirreling myself away in the basement bedroom, crossed legged as much as one can do with two legs temporarily giving me shit.
Sometimes, I don’t know if I’ve just met my quota of stimulation for the day or if it’s my body’s way of keeping everything at a level of discomfort instead of outright pain.
I hate the sun sometimes, loud noises, too many people, too much happening and, the basement is my preferred escape. Just a walking contradiction, that’s me.
Often I crave human contact too but shyness gets in the way.
Perhaps I’ve always been this way.
As a child I could often be found in the corner of the classroom quietly drawing or most often daydreaming of somewhere else I’d like to be. My friends were people that pierced my bubble, who came along and sat next to me and just asked ‘whatcha doin?’
You can hide in a crowd sometimes if you’re lucky, move along in a tide of people headed somewhere on a busy afternoon and be an observer in someone else’s narrative. This is particularly nice to do in large cities on busy streets or transit stations.
One of my old professors talked about the importance of the writer as observer; of removing yourself from the situation to report only on what your eyes see and your ears hear, filtering all judgment out of your senses.
It is by far my favourite thing to do.