Chill.

There's a certain chill unique to empty houses. Even when you're in Cairo's notoriously warm April. A certain chill that stems from your own insecurities as you wander the halls and alternate rooms of the house that you have all to yourself.

I used to love being alone. Relish the silence. 'Do my own thing' as they say. But now, when my heart grows heavier with every step and I carry with me an army's worth of pain, fear, heartbreak, insecurity and just plain sadness - the house's often accusatory silence is not one I look forward to. With every rising decibel of... nothing... my fear multiplies and I find myself going into territories of my mind that are otherwise always sealed off from my consciousness. Territories that I keep locked up in the fantastical box at the back of my mind, filled with stories and memories that I vowed never to look back on.

But, alas, here I am in a large, dark, empty, threatening house. Curled up in my bed, writing this up, and calling on every god and every hope and every last straw that the fear and the loneliness would subside long enough for me to fall asleep. Back into oblivion and into, fortunately, that state of pleasant 'forgetfulness,' whereby one ignores their most impeding of subconscious issues and continues upon their daily routine.

So. I now hate being alone. I want the hustle and bustle and talking and listening and learning and watching and engaging and... the plethora of distractions to rescue me from my relentless mind.

Please don't leave me alone again.