At the last night of celebration, watching one impassioned performer after another, I quietly slip away. I leave once. Then again. Then again. I sink into the light hammock outside the kitchen, wrapping its bright silk around me, cocooned in the darkness. Inside, in the welcoming crowd, I feel queasy, stuffed, cramming myself full on a feast too rich to digest. I want less. Connection is easy, I am learning, too easy, and like sugar, it has become an insatiable craving. Solitude is harder, but cleaner, lighter, in some strange way more nourishing. Alone, I can savour one song, one encounter, one teaching for days. I can taste the juice of it lingering sweet in my mouth, finally grateful.
Word prompt: solitude. From my daily writing practice by email with three women across the continent.