Blog Post 42.
New growth of trees and bushes and flowers and weeds dampens into oblivion any sounds of human life as I walk between rows of homes in which lives are supposedly being lived.
The sun is shining and I look up at a vast blue sky, watching raindrops fall from nowhere, feeling them bead down my face, knowing this could not be happening to anyone but me; a secret I share with that vast blue sky (not that either of us might find an ear to hear about it).
There is no we in solipsism; no u. There is an i, however. Even after all these days there is still an i in solipsism. In fact, there are two. Ironic company if ever I saw it. Proof that loneliness is not lonesomeness though neither is mutually exclusive, neither dependent.
The reality of it all is questionable. It is entirely too real. I must look at a map to know I am far from home. The map tells me I am much closer than I have been. I remind myself that I am much closer than I will likely be. Home tells me that she herself is a concept, maleable and stagnant and alone and everywhere. She reminds me that I will only again have her if i return. She reminds me that I will never return.
I am happy, yet I am entirely unsatisfied. I marvel at this world and all her static progress. The tides are higher at night and the sky is bluer over Denver. The birds sing for me everywhere I go they sing for themselves.
Kulani Sol 