She needed to be alone. It wasn't that anything bad had happened. She hadn't had any fights or break-ups, nobody had died, she hadn't been estranged from her family. But still, she needed to be alone.
Her life had gone from simple nothings to extreme everythings. People, work, travel, school, more people and more work and more travel... She loved it all and she reveled in it and it had overtaken her, overwhelmed her, tired her right out. She was exhausted and warn. Thin. She had learned and changed so much, had given to others and taken little for herself. She had morphed and now she barely knew herself anymore.
It was time to be still. To listen to her thoughts. To wright them out over and over again, so as not to miss a single noun. It was time to be still. To do little and be intentional. To do the things she had always wanted to do. To play piano and paint pictures and ride mo-peds. To watch documentaries and listen to books on tape. To watch movies in bed. To watch them twice in a row just because she liked them that much. And to cry in them, just because they moved her that much. That would be a big deal, when she let that first tear drop well up in her eye, become so full it flooded the brims holding it in place ad slid over the edge, like a suicide victim sliding over the slim edge of a roof top to their last few fleeting moments of bliss before their imminent death. It can be scary to show how you feel, but exuberayting to learn.
And in these silent walls of someone elses life, she would reinvent her own.