It’s the idea that we’re not.
I was lying awake, enjoying the gentle hum of my mini fan.
It was a beautiful time of night to stargaze.
Wisps of summer air encircled my bed from the open window.
All was peaceful. Until. . .
I glanced straight up at the trapdoor on the ceiling.
Was it the attic? No. It’s the house settling.
Rattling and various noises sounded from the vents.
It’s just the bars bending from the heat and, uh, stuff. It happens because. . . Science.
My attempts at reassurance were futile as the house greeted me with its own special creaks.
Why did I move into a place that’s 120 years old? I could have found a modern suburban home.
I knew that nobody was there but me. But was I?
“Why don’t you get a roommate? Are you sure you like living alone?” People closest to me will ask.
The answer is yes. Being alone is never the issue. Living alone is a wonderful thing. I don’t believe anyone is afraid to be alone.
I think we all appreciate it when Paranoia doesn’t drop by. The bitch never even brings chips. She just settles down anywhere and makes you uncomfortable.
The idea of not being alone, is far scarier than knowing that you are.