Another Muse on the Reclusive Tendency.

I have orcs coming to invade my space again tomorrow. The problem is, you see, that orcs are normal people who don’t understand recluses like me. And why should they? We live in different worlds; we have different perceptions and priorities; we gravitate to the chosen few, not the masses. They think their world is the proper one, and we, for our part, don’t care what they think. And so they have no idea just how much their prospective invasion causes us serious disquiet.

I remember those far off days when I sometimes used to go to bed looking forward to tomorrow. Christmas Eve was favourite, of course, but there were others. Every Friday night when I was a schoolboy fitted the bill, especially on the day when we’d broken up for the Christmas or long summer break. The night before the annual summer holiday was another, and the night before a planned fishing trip, and the night before a first date with a new girlfriend… I could go on; there used to be quite a few at one time. I suppose it was a time when my reclusive tendency was only at its seminal stage and the need to live inside myself was but the effulgent eastern sky before sunrise.

It seems such a very long time since I’ve gone to bed looking forward to tomorrow. All I have to look forward to these days is waking up wishing I didn’t have to get out of bed. It’s what happens when life has taken you up a tributary off the main river, led you to an empty but enchanted glade, and you’ve grown fond of the sense of peace.

Maybe I should start looking forward to my Sainsbury’s shopping trips. There’s a new checkout operator there who has deep and soulful eyes which carry just a hint of vulnerability, so I make a point of going through her checkout just so I can look at them. She doesn’t seem to mind; she even smiled at me once, although I expect she tells her colleagues about ‘this weird old bloke who frowns a lot and stares at me.’ Well, that’s OK. I can tolerate the reputation as long as she finds it amusing.