Human beings are social creatures. That is one tenet I recall from my Sociology class. Perhaps that is why solitary confinement is reserved for the most baneful of criminals? Maybe that is why some of us execute the "Silent Treatment" to those close to us when offended? Maybe that is why some many of us are afraid of being alone?
Could it be that in our vastly individualistic society, whenever we come across a connection where we think to ourselves, "Finally, somebody gets me; they see me for who I really am," we feel we have the green light to instantly begin investing in forging an everlasting bond with that person?
Who can say for sure, what we do and why we do it? One thing I am certain of is: Seattle's Darling is a social creature. A highly social creature.
My honed powers of observation are not just limited to home furnishings, food and fine spirits. It also extends to people. How they present themselves in attire, speech, body language, movement, preferences in food and drink, geography, family history, friends and other associations. The list goes on.
As I've mentioned before, in many ways, I am a highly sensitive person. You can imagine, every so often, I have to take some time to rejuvenate my body and revive my spirit. Furthermore, whenever experiencing significant pain, my mind and my senses are easily overloaded. Friday morning when I awoke I was greeted with a dull thudding in my head and muscles that ached nearly everywhere, (apparently my wisdom teeth are coming in.) By the time I was finished with work all I wanted to do was crawl into bed, close my eyes and rest. So that's exactly what I did.
When I awoke, a few hours later, I still ached all over and decided to draw a hot bath. As I was waiting for the tub to fill, I went through my text message inbox: invitation after invitation to come out for the night; birthdays, a dinner party, other assorted parties, friends visiting from out of town, friends of friends visiting from out of town... I just wasn't feeling up to snuff to be around people and actively engaged in the moment.
Ordinarily, when at home, I have the radio on, usually tuned to Classic King FM or NPR. This night, on a much needed night alone, I just wanted silence.
Before stepping into my steaming bath, I grabbed a thick book off of a nearby shelf. One I had read, only once, but written by one of my top three favorite authors, George R. R. Martin. I slid into my nearly scalding bath and submerged myself into another world: Westeros. A land where cunning and ambition can raise one far, where chivalry can be as much of a hindrance as a virtue and very few Princesses end up marrying gallant Princes. Martin's fascinating characters exhibit so much humanness, each with their own unique voice, modus operandi and raison d'être.
Being such a deft and crafty writer, Martin offers up an exquisite amount of detail and seems to effortlessly weave nearly infinite layers of hope (for love, family and justice,) desire (for lust, prestige and power) and intrigue (the silken threads that tie everything together) into a comprehensive, gorgeous and enthralling tapestry one can't help but to feast their eyes upon it. By the time my bathwater turned tepid, I was some 300 pages in.
I toweled off rather swiftly, slid back into bed and re-visited Westeros, with it's all-too-real inhabitants; in between chapters, I would scour the appendix to have a clearer grasp on the realm's various dynasties, family trees and associated geography and heraldry making better sense of assorted rivalries and alliances. After a few hours, when sleep finally beckoned once more, I drew the shades, put in a pair of earplugs and closed my tired, but sated eyes.
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