The Loneliest Being

Yesterday, I finished season two of Doctor Who (don’t judge me yet), and it broke my heart. I could not believe what happened at the end. David Tennant and Billie Piper play sad very well. 

As my eyes filled with tears, I realized something: Rose wanted to travel with Ten, not only because she loved him, because she did, but also because he was alone in the universe. He was the last of the Timelords, and she had taken it upon herself to stay with him so he didn’t have to be alone. 

Needless to say, the tears came harder after that.

Being alone here is sad. We move along in life, looking for someone to share life with. We find friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, family, bosses, anyone who can share life with us. And then, they leave, and we feel alone again as we log into our computers and look longingly at their old pictures, wishing we could talk to them. 

What if we had an entire universe, multiple galaxies and times to go to? We could always find someone to be with us, couldn’t we?

Ah, but wait. We’re humans, and there are billions of humans on this planet at least, if not on other planets. We will never be alone, not really. We don’t have to save the world, we don’t have to protect all the galaxies. We only have to protect our own little corner, make this world a little better.

Why do you think superheroes are so alone? Why are all the heroes alone? They’re afraid they’re going to lose someone because they do lose someone. They’re alone too, more alone than us.

But still, there are other superheroes. They band together into the Avengers, X-Men, Justice League, and they’re with the people like them.

But there are no Timelords left. None. 

In retrospect, we’re not that alone at all.

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Once upon a time, I went on a cross-country road trip, and since then, I haven’t wanted to be back. I feel a certain loneliness, longing, ache for the open road. I miss the cramped car, my music all day every day, and the time zones. I miss the feeling of freedom in the mountains, the awe and beauty of the sea. Anticipation built as I crossed a bridge. Fear mounted when I saw the vastness of the sky. 

And here I am today, dreaming for a ticket to San Francisco to meet new people at a sci-fi/fantasy conference. I want to backpack across Europe and stay in hostels with people I’ve just barely met. I want to sail across the Pacific with nothing between me and God but the clouds. I want to fly, I want to live, I want to travel. I want to be free.


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A Letter

Dear Sir,

I’m not sure if you care, but I’m doing fine. I wish you’d tell me how you’re doing, but I won’t ask you because I’m afraid you won’t answer. I tell you cool news about life, and I hoped you’d reciprocate with cool news about your life. 

I’ve rejoined the living. I have a Facebook and Twitter again, and I plan to be happy as ever on both of them. You did not control my happiness. For a while, I thought you did, but you did not. 

I’m writing again, and I’m only going to tell the people who care about it about it. You don’t seem to mind either way, though you probably do mind either way.

I’m going to dedicate one or more of my books to you.



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Isn’t it Funny?

Funny, how you’re so used to crying into someone’s shoulder, but now you’re just crying into a pillow.

Funny, how that’s the same pillow you shared a few months ago, your fingers intertwined as you whispered to each other your secrets.

Funny, how you never wanted to tell anyone those secrets, but they made you so comfortable that they felt like an extension of you. And now that they’re gone, isn’t it funny how all of you is still here?

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If I want to be a writer, I have to write. I can’t sit on the internet browsing Tumblr and Facebook, robotically reblogging things that strike my fancy. I need my own space that can be taken seriously, something that says, hey, she really means business, because I do. I’m querying (hopefully the agents are okay that I’ve self-published because I hear that’s sort of a turn-off), and I’ve been writing, writing, writing after exhausting myself at Chipotle, my day job at the moment. 

I’ve been flying through the Guide to Literary Agents all today, and I’ve learned a lot. Agents have to be as invested in my work as I am, which means I have to find The One.

And there I thought I only had to find one person who was The One.

But now, here I am. Blogging. I really am a starving artist.

A dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer.

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