Friday nights are supposed to be spent with someone, I always thought. I call it “Friday night sickness,” the cure for which would be a bunch of friends for company, or, in the absence of companions, an impulsive shopping spree with lots of cash to spend. At one point in my life, I considered being caught dead alone on a Friday night as one of my greatest fears, next to my macbook crashing and not being able to have babies.
But I realize now, as I’ve been spending more and more Friday nights by myself, that it’s not so bad spending nights like this just being quiet, watching droplets of rain trickle down glass windows while cars pass by in the background like little bokehs, and listening to the hushed voices of lovers and friends chatting inside coffee shops.
It’s Friday night, I’m alone, and I’m in love.
In love with life, in love with NOW, in love with the promise of things to come. I want to remember these days, these Fridays I get to spend alone. I want to dry them up, like rose petals placed in between the pages of a hard bound book, and preserve them until they’re old and yellow and forgotten. And then maybe one day, accidentally or on purpose, I’ll come across these memories, remember how it’s like, and laugh at the silliness of it all.
Tonight I realize that I need to chillax and learn to not be so afraid of being alone.
(Thoughts that are too long for twitter. Posted from my mobile phone.)
