I love words. I love how they feel on my tongue and how they hiss on their way past my lips.
I love their meanings, their symbolism, their ability to grab an emotion and wrap it in luscious sound so that it brings pleasure just to say it out loud.
“I am”, I pause, “a misanthrope.”
Right now, I am. I am, truly, an old curmudgeon who loves no human company. I walk into the darkness of my bedroom, the TV noise fading behind me. I cross into the shadowy bathroom, closing the door so that I feel alone. I don’t turn on the light.
I lean on edge of the sink, my palms holding me upright as I gaze at my shadowed face in the mirror.
“I am a misanthrope.”, I say. I nod to myself in response, gray hair lifting in the breeze of the open window.
“I don’t like anyone.”, I tell the frowning face who looks back at me from the dark mirror. “Not. Anyone.”
I don’t want to talk to anyone, please anyone, feed anyone, hug anyone, give to anyone any more.
I want to buy a tiny house on the beach, where I will spend my days collecting shells on the waterline, and my nights gazing at the stars in the silence of my living room.
I don’t want to smile or chat or agree or coddle or suck up or reassure or support or argue.
I want to be the only human in my world.
What a word. What a wonderfully awful word.