Another Lonely Night.

The chair creaks as it turns. It is old and tired; each inch of movement brings forth a squeak of protest.
The headphones magnify the sound of my blood pumping, and that of static silence.
The keys depress; like my mind tends to of late. They clump and tap out a rhythm that I command, but the language forms and molds.
My breathing is slow, deliberate. Not quite relaxed; these days, that is rare indeed.

It is not the busyness that bothers me. I crave busyness; I need it, I need distraction, I need diversion.
It is not being able to be busy with some of the things that I love to do;
And that in those times when I am not busy, I am alone.
And undistracted.
Undiverted.
And my thoughts simply wander to that same place.

That place will be hard enough to go once in my life.
I have lived it a hundred times over, and yet not even the once.
And so I long for proper busyness, diversion, distraction.

Though I know that will never solve the problem, but simply delay it.
I know that well. I know all the arguments. It's what I do.
Among many things.
But this is one problem that I cannot see how it can be solved. By me, at least.

Thankfully, it's not up to me to solve it.
But he doesn't always say yes. And he doesn't always say it right now, or when we want him to.
But at least he has an answer. Because that's better than me right now.