On some days, much like the present, I am the perpetrator and the victim. I can be cynical and abrupt. Much like the barrier reef, that refuses to move away from the bay. So here I sit, cut up and bruised in places most people have never been invited to visit. Kind of how toothpicks are found lying on the floor. Surely, this was not an homage to the trees that produced them. Dislodged food and clean breath are as novel as an afternoon nap on the arm of a worn out, blue chair. Very few understand the loneliness of perpetual company, and even fewer can raise a thumb in solidarity. I suspect that introversion is a genetic cruelty and at the same time, a blessed sanctuary that can mend. Even now as the argument has drifted off with the possums and the nighttime breeze, my anxiety tells me that another invitation is coming. I curl up in a ball with gratitude, thankful that by myself, I am reunited with the emptiness of my best friend.