Off the beaten track?
I do not consider it some sort of indication that I am growing old. Or rather, I should ask; what does that mean?
I do not need to be sandwiched between death and a glacier on Denali. I do not wish to be in a room of little black dresses and presumptive hands. In such places, the conversations of being roll and crash like waves: to be understood, a woman must yell upon the beach.
I did once. I approached the outlands because my soul was a void and wanted as much from life as it could consume. The irony now is that my soul wants as much void as possible.
Perhaps you may find it here, this place says. Or not as the case may be. We are alike, you know...
We were never very popular. Off the resort loop. Roads not traveled at all. And it is quiet here. I do not want to be where it is at. I am somewhere small insights grow into contented epilogues and tangential anecdotes of a life better lived than previously thought. Adventure lives in your mind, where it always was.
A cricket is my only company. A metronome counting moments. And yet not. If I listen, I can tell that the melody is but two notes, but they change in tempo with the night. The air may feel melancholy with desertion, but it is densely pensive with lemon blossoms and fennel while the moonlight shifts across the roofs. I am glad the people are sleeping, bereft of the daylight clothes they use to understand one another. In sleep they must now face themselves.
But I am awake, and I require only moonlight.