what does it mean to be alone?
According to this computer, the time is 3:45 PM. Time to start heading to work. Actually, I’ve learned recently I should leave a bit earlier if I want to arrive on time. I don’t think anyone’s noticed I’ve been late for every shift I’ve worked since I’ve come back home. Luckily? This clock is wrong—the real time is 11:43 AM. And actually, work is where I’ve just come from. I guess I’m not surprised they made a mistake. Communication seems to be everybody’s problem. But don’t worry, I’ll be back at four. Ready to work a long closing shift on New Year’s Eve. In the mean time, I probably won’t change out of my uniform. What’s strange is I kind of like wearing it. It sort of makes me feel like I belong. This dark, marching community of service industry slaves whose job it is to fake smiles for cash and pretend like it will ever be enough. I don’t think I fit in—I’m the ant who gets left behind, who smells the impending doom on my feelers and spins around in crazy circles—but maybe I really am one of them.
I am in the public library. It’s not too far from work, and for some reason I didn’t feel like going straight home. This is the library where I interviewed for Brown two years ago already. We shook hands in front of the green vinyl sofa area, then closed ourselves into a small fluorescent study room. I was so proud of myself for not fainting or dying or sounding like a complete idiot that afternoon. Did I think I’d be getting into Brown? Not really, but I had thought I’d made some kind of nice impression on that old, fat, peering alumnus.
When I want to write, I can do it anywhere. When I want to want to write, the library is my favorite place. I usually don’t like to be alone here. When I’m here it usually means I’m struggling, and I don’t think anyone likes to struggle alone. The thing is, lately I’ve felt alone everywhere. I want so much to be able to count on other people. I love people. People are why I write. But why do they always disappoint me? The older we all get, the more we fear death, the less we feel control, the more we give it up, the less we understand what the fuck is going on anymore.
“I feel so numb lately.” I announced it in the middle of another tired conversation about drugs and life being unfair. Everyone else in the car stopped talking and nodded yes. Could they know how detached I feel? How frozen? I think things used to have more color, used to be more saturated and alive. I think: I am not that old, there will be more for me. Spring will come again, ah. Please, let spring return. I remain optimistic at least. When I was in Israel last winter I gave myself a Hebrew name: Aviva Shoshanna, spring rose. I thought it sounded pretty, and maybe I’m fixated on this idea of growth and renewal. I don’t know. I think most roses bloom in the summer, actually.
I have 17 minutes before I have to give up my spot at this computer. I will not have written much in an hour, but that’s okay. Maybe I’m more of a writer than I ever let myself believe. Maybe it is my therapy. If I let it, maybe it is my best chance out of here, for whenever I need to leave. What will I do when my time runs out? I will probably sift through the CD racks and then attempt to get started on the reading list Professor Ansay has outlined for me. I hope this library has what I’ll be looking for: The Best American Short Stories 2009. Wonder if they’re really any special. I need to start reading like a writer, she told me. I need to be aware of my peers, how they’re speaking, what they’re saying, where I might fit in. I don’t know if I’ll ever fit in. Lately I just always feel like an ant.
