Homebodies

ISSUE #98

I am going to melt into my walls. I can feel them sucking me in, Jumanji-style, dissolving me like white flour in an arid breeze. When it's safe to come out and I don't show up, they'll find a greasy silhouette, tombstone-shaped, just above my bed. The epitaph: "Here he had lain, all day and all night—picking up the laptop, putting down the laptop, sleeping with the Switch, dreaming of picnics and potlucks."

Without society's schedule, I've drifted back to my natural rhythms—waking up at noon and going to bed at dawn. This usually means breakfast at four, lunch at nine, and dinner at two a.m. The isolation is barely different than when I first moved here, I try to remind myself. My whole life existed on a mile of I-85. The difference now is a lack of structure, a little grief, and waiting till who knows when.

Meanwhile, my yard is like bumblebee prom, each lumbering pair locked in a horny dance. Never did I imagine I'd be jealous of giant bugs. I'd almost pull a Metamorphosis, if it meant that I could still bump into other beings. Instead, I do what I can to stay human—hope that we emerge from this fully-formed, with generous perspectives and energy to share. For now, I change a little every day, swirling slow like mixing cement, trying not to get too dizzy.