Lately I feel I have become the embodiment of one hand clapping in the universe: here but feckless. I've become the shadow in my own life.
I know writing is a solitary profession. I know there is a need for silence in order to organize thoughts and ideas. But I wasn't planning on having that silence extend into every part of my life.
There was a time I had the best of both worlds. I could descend inside my cocoon, gestate, and then emerge seeking life and companionship. Now I emerge to nothingness. I'm constantly tapping the mike, "Sound check. Sound check. Is this thing on?"
Friends have abandoned me just as I have become a more compelling and substantial being. I accept the natural ebb and flow of relationships but here in this trough there is no flow to balance the ebb. I hold my phone sifting through the mental list of friends to chat with and it's always the same, 0.
I'm in desperate need of new friends but it's a task easier said than done. If I span my resume I have all the requisite skills- articulate, good communicator, sense of humor, well informed, serious but not too much, empathetic, loyal, etc... My quest has been much like the American economy- lots of seekers, very few seeking.
The true writer in me finds meaning. This is meant to be. This is my time to concentrate on the writing and ignore the extraneous. Someday this will make a good story.