I come home exhausted and impatient and grimy, and I go up the stairs looking forward to the solace that my room normally gives me. It is neither big nor grand. The curtains are made of light bamboo. My single mattress lies on the floor. My dark brown closet and drawers and desks are just the way I left them – clean and neat and organized, and I know exactly where everything is. Ah, sweet solitude.
Not so, these days. It’s summer and the kids are on vacation and did I say we like hanging out with each other? The aircon is with me and we try and we eliminate the need for exhaust fans just by bunching up in a single room. Josh has declared that his own single mattress is taking a vacation in my chamber.
And so on any given time there is an assortment of things that aren’t really mine. Aside from his mattress, there are the fluffy pillows, the violin, the speakers, the books, the bey blades and the accessories that go with all these.
More than things, there are warm bodies. There is music and talk and banter and laughter and storytelling and, occasionally, gossip and tampuhan.
Sometimes they succeed in cajoling me to get hotdogs from the nearby Mini-Stop even at midnight.
Sometimes I feel I could just scream. I resort to either of two things – going downstairs for some me-time, or drifting off to sleep.
These days I feel I need to be alone some more. I have some serious thinking and strategizing to do. On the other hand, I also need to plan the nitty-gritty of the every day. How, then, can I do all that when I am just surrounded all the time?
Am I complaining? Yes. But will I have it any other way? Of course not. I guess I just need to plan some more, even for those precious minutes of peace and quiet. Like now, when I do manage to get away, be alone, and write.