By Myself v Alone

The cafés in Paris were my havens. Some of my most smiley days were spent in a tiny red wicker chair at a café by my twelve squared meters big apartment. It was so simple- I would walk down five flights of oaky smelling crooked stairs, walk one cobble stoned block up and one cobble stoned block right, sit in my homey corner, order a Leffe or a café crème and people watch as I pretended to read the French book I impulsively bought but unfortunately could not read. I couldn’t help but beam with happiness with every sip. I was content with sitting in that chair made only for small derrières all by myself. At least half of the people in my café were by themselves too and I know I found comfort in knowing that I was in the company of those who were also by themselves and I love, love, love company.


At the coffee shop tonight I didn’t feel by myself, I felt plain and short and alone. I felt the difference in being by your self and being alone and I hated it. ‘By yourself,’ ‘next to yourself’ ‘near yourself,’- like I have a best friend who is me and who is by me (casually sitting next to me)…alone you are just s.o.l. on the side of the road in the middle of the Sahara (you have absolutely no one who can identify with your story). When I sat there tonight, I felt alone and company-less. People who were sitting by me weren’t beaming; they were glaring into their books like zombies. I set out tonight hoping to put a band aid on a bad day- life had other plans.