i have, like i imagine many others might, a ritual of undressing at the end of each day. having lived alone for several years i’ve come to appreciate the sanctity of my privacy, the midnight treat after a long evening. as much as i love spending time with people — laughing myself open with them, peering into their lives and egos, bumping shoulders and feeling inspired — my introversion awaits me eagerly each night, quiet and patient for my eventual return to self.
it goes something like this: i enter my apartment after a social evening out. with the click of the apartment door that i close behind me, my cluttered impressions of the day’s events begin to fall slowly into place. as i walk through the musty entryway of my solitude, little moments float downwards from the ceiling like autumn leaves against a breeze – that conversation was quite fruitful, that person was enjoyable and inspiring, that other person i’m starting to think maybe feels uncomfortable with me. the deeper i go into my apartment (and the further from the door, the outside world) the more i curl my senses inwards, dissociating from my physical body which i dispatch into the rote routine of end-of-day: taking off my jacket, laying my keys and wallet onto the counter, throwing my socks in the hamper. my mind attends scrupulously to the emotional collage of the evening, and by the time i am brushing my teeth in my pajamas, the reflection i see in the bathroom mirror is not of myself but of a sculpture of myself. the sculpture is vibrant and opaque and provocative, made of wet foliage, red and yellow and green, inexpressible through language. when i look down, my body remains the same flesh and bone, but it does not feel that way when i walk; i feel my leaves fluttering like scales. this follows me to the end of the evening. i carry it with me into my dreamworld. atop my bed i am clump of leaves, sometimes well-stitched and comforting, other times just a heap waiting to be scattered by a strong gust.
in my last moments of the day i hear the quiet events outside my window. the public bus hisses to a halt, then wheezes itself forward after a pause. the crosswalk chirps “wait” to an midnight pedestrian. cars breeze by with the sound of tires against wet pavement. my eyes close within the cradle of nighttime seattle and the fading echoes of my tireless thoughts.