I spend too much time alone. This has been true all of my life. It started when I was a young boy living in the country, with nothing but sticks and my repetitive imagination to keep me company. Now that I am older I seldom play with sticks, and I live in a city (within a house, within a room, within himself). These changes are merely environmental, however, because I am still often by myself.

The problem with this solitude is not the solitude itself. I think everyone can benefit from some alone time. And it isn’t like I don’t ever socialize with other people, I live with a beautiful man and talk often with my fascinating friends. So there is some balance. What concerns me, then, is the fact that when I am alone it doesn’t always feel like I am. My youthful habit of imaginary friends has become a full-fledged addiction. It seems I am always having some sort of dialog.

First there is the self-critical conversation with the hater. This usually turns in to debate with the part of me that still thinks that I am interesting. Then there is the dreamer, who wishes he were doing more to improve himself, and still believes he will. And the scholar who knows exactly which books to read and what languages to learn and delivers frequent lectures on the subject. And the nymphomaniac who can do nothing but fantasize. And the romantic who can do nothing but compose poems for the boy whom we all love. (The real live boy, mind you, who I am lucky enough to live with.)

These disparate entities in my head are the reason I do not usually like being by myself. Alone time is confusing. Alone time is hard to escape. Alone time makes me feel like a crazy person.

I spend too much time alone.