the bliss of solitude

I just want to write a story. Something that is bigger than myself. Something so true. And something so make believe. There's got to be a little fiction in life. There's got to be stories. There's got to be the expanse of the universe. The stars and the planets. The expanses of sky that stretch out beyond the sand you dig your toes into. beyond the flapping of the waves. beyond the end of the earth. until your eyes fall out of focus. they blur, and dry up. you squint, and they water. milligrams of salt water. it's mechanical. but your mind wanders. and then you're crying.  you were already crying. but now you're crying. when I was little, we read poems. we memorized them. other people's margins. other people's places. make believe. and it was real, too. real to the characters. real to me. make believe. But I have known the burbling Jabberwocky. I've been where the borogroves grow. I've known Wordsworth and Whitman. I knew their words before I knew myself. And we all catch up. I think I was six when I told you that I lay on my couch, in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye, which is the bliss of solitude. I knew that poem. I saw those daffodils. And now? Now, I've had my heart chewed  up and spit out. I moved to Europe, by myself. I traveled to Cadiz  all alone, and wandered on the beaches for hours. Collecting sea glass, the blue ones, please. And thinking of you. 20 years later. And I see the daffodils that we talked about, so long ago. And I remember.