I sit comfortably in solitude. It brings me joy. The silence is full of peace and quiet that many take for granted. They assume I’m languishing, isolating myself from the world — little do they know, I love it here. If only they’d ask. Maybe one day they’ll get it.
Now I understand why my grandma just wanted to sit in her house. Knowing that where I lay my head is my own makes me want to cocoon myself inside its soothing, cozy walls even more. Oh, how I love it here.
Thirty-six-year-old me is finally content. And for the first time, I’m okay with that. I am fine with where I am — happy even — or at least as happy as I can be; despite all of the things happening in this cruel world. And for that, I am grateful. I honestly don’t give thanks enough, as I am truly astonished to have come so far. Back then, there were many moments of uncertainty that almost broke me — but I still made it here.
Now I sit in silence. In comfort. In contentment. In joy. And this little life of mine is alright with me.
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