Sandpaper

Right now, everything is abrasive.  Everything is a little stroke of sandpaper against my skin, against my nerves, against my sanity. 

I wish I could be alone, could be in a place with no noise, or in a city where nobody knew me.  I would love to get on a plane, a train, in my car, and just disappear.  I would love for the crowds to just swirl around me and make me anonymous.  I would love to sit at the back table of some cafe or walk into some museum or stand behind the lens of my Nikon and watch the play of light and dark as people go about their lives, safe in my peaceful namelessness for a day, a week, until every buzzing of my phone in my pocket, every time someone says my name doesn't feel like an invasion.

I need peace.  I need the silk of understanding and closeness instead of the rough demand of more, more, more.  I need solitude or that special type of being with another that does not feel like an intrusion, like someone rubbing me raw with their needs and their constant expectations of what I can do for them. 

I like to give.  I am by nature a person who seeks to help others.  But today, just now, here in this very second of my life, my cup is running empty and I feel shaky inside.  Sandpaper, applied often enough to fine-grained wood will destroy the shape.  I hope I can find away to get out from under this grinding before it's too late.