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Here Alone

Here Alone Stephen L. Harrison

Here alone, I swing, suspended. Not in air, but in myself.

Blows, sharp and swift, come. They sting, like the prick of a needle, or the whisper of a forgotten name.

I love them, each one— friends, life, the salt spray of every day— like the gentle scrape of a quill, stories written on my skin.

Each touch, a wordless message, reaching deep, down to the heart of me. To the place where feelings live.

I feel them, every pulse, every throb. And I say nothing. No sound escapes.

No "thank you," for the comfort. No "ouch," for the pain. No word, not a single syllable.

This space, it's mine. Just mine. A quiet room, built within.

And in this room, I am not lost. I am not lonely, in the way you might think.

I am here. I am home. Alone, but not empty. Full of what is. Full of me.

Here alone, I am by myself,

not physically, but within my own mind. Sharp and quick hits, arrive.

They hurt, like a needle's prick, or the faint sound of a forgotten name. I cherish them, every single one—

friends, life, the daily experiences— like the soft touch of a quill, stories etched on my skin. Every touch, is a silent message,

going deep, to the core of my being. To where my emotions reside. I sense them, every beat, every pulse.

And I remain silent. No sound comes out. No "thank you," for the comfort.

No "ouch," for the hurt. No words, not even one sound. This space, belongs to me.

Only to me. A calm room, created inside. And in this space, I am not confused.

I am not alone, in the way you might assume. I exist here. I feel at home.

By myself, but not void. Filled with reality. Filled with my essence.