Eating alone

I always thought that eating with other people makes your food taste better.

But it doesn't. It tastes exactly the same.

I always disliked eating by myself. I thought it was a sign of weakness. Your inability to mingle with the rest of the group or to ask someone to eat with you.

But I tried it out today, all by myself in a large empty room lit by a bright fluorescent light. I didn't feel weak.

It was rather refreshing, and I was having all kind of thoughts.

Like the bizarre cold front that's seeping up the warmth of spring all over America's east coast, the slumping economy hanging on for dear life, my future, my boyfriend's boyish smile, the curiously strong taste of Altoids.

I must have eaten too fast. Next time, I will keep a book open next to me to space out my time.

I feel myself retracting inwards a lot more often these days. Is this part of growing up? To feel more than you express, to think more than you act, to say less and ponder more.

I'm starting to feel restless again. I feel like I need to pack up and leave by myself. Go travel somewhere, meet strangers, ride trains, order unknown dishes.

Maybe my trial in eating alone today was preparing me for the road ahead. To feel comfort in this big vast and somewhat empty world, and to be able to fill that emptiness with my impossible goals and a pinch of hope.