For a second, I revel in the familiar clunk as
the door locks behind me.
I then slowly amble into my favourite place:
A safe space waiting to tuck me into
a redeeming stretch of solitude,
with the warmth of invisible nuzzling puppies.
A safe space where I sow meek seeds,
delight in tiny, sanguine seedlings,
and make room for flamboyant cherry trees.
A safe space where I allow myself to be fleetingly weak,
and give in to the hush that comes with a familiar gust
of wilting regrets and pipe dreams.
A safe place where the music beautifully copes,
even as the confused mind guiltlessly flits
between walking on sunshine
and being comfortably numb.
In this sanctum, with a soothing pitcher of privacy,
I make every moment holy
by helping me see me.
I make every selfish moment holy
by being in good company.
After those 100 minutes of solitude,
I wipe out the smudged eyeliner
and get ready to
confront a world of
painful news and humanitarian voices,
happy music and empty noises,
friendly smiles and stoic faces,
drudgery and themed races,
sunshine and dirt,
laughter and hurt,
conversations and expectations,
blue ticks and
push notifications.
After those 102 minutes of solitude, I finally
confront a world
that is, thankfully, too busy to ask
what I do in or why I need a
a castle with closed doors.