Isolation Fantasy

by goatlove

All along I had imagined that Maine would be a place of isolation for me.  But I had actually found a hive to transplant myself into, an island humming with activity.

A family of seven, plus me.  Life was suddenly loud and bustling, urban commotion in a rural landscape.  Everyone nosing into everyone else’s business.  Babies crying, teenage drama, adult disagreements.  And so much love wrapped around every action, every word, that each moment I witnessed felt like a gift.  I rarely missed an opportunity to join them at the dinner table.

Life was big, and loud, and wonderful.  But it was a challenge, living in such a different way.  In fact, it was exhausting.  So that’s why I felt a pull towards the desert – a place to rest my mind, body, ears.

I knew where I wanted to go, I had been there earlier in the year during a solo road trip I took after quitting my desk job.  I remembered my campsite nestled against the base of the mountains and my view as I cooked a simple dinner over an open flame, the sun settling into the earth behind a neighboring mountain range.  That was where I planned to live and write for a month this winter.

Then I met The Collector, and my plans changed abruptly.

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