This is the first time I've truly appreciated the rain. Words were too much for me, the talking far too loud. I pulled up my hood and slipped on my worn leather boots covered in filth and liquor. I stepped outside without hesitation and began to walk, head down, watching the puddles run together. I became instantly soaked but for once had no thought or care about it. I stopped at the archway by the market. The path was blocked for construction. I slung my bag around my shoulder, climbed the fence, lept into a rather large puddle, and continued walking towards the union. I kept my eyes low as I walked and made sure to observe the reflection of the street lights as the rain drops rhythmically scattered to the ground. What a perfect thing this weather was for comfort. I had left seeking silence but the sound of the rain was like a warmth that no words would be able to provide me. Finally reaching the double doors, I gripped the wet handles and stepped inside, heading straight for my favorite corner: cushions, seclusion, and brick walls surrounding. Now I write.

It's not that I'm lonely. Well, I am I suppose, in a way. Loneliness is the whole of my being. Loneliness is who I am and who I always will be, and I embrace it like an old friend. But I do not wish to find anyone special. I'm not looking for a completion of myself or an "other half". I just feel as though I'm missing out on exploring the world around me simply because I have no one to do it with. Why is it that the comfort of love has become the final "You Are Here" place mark on the map? I don't understand the satisfaction of a steady, prolonged relationship with another person and I question whether I ever will. I thrive and flourish under the excitement of the unknown, the what-could-happen. It seems everyone around me is content with the answers they've already found and have no interest in asking any more questions. How can this be when my body is buzzing with curiosity?