Three or four years ago, I lived alone. I was lonely, and I was inspired. I wrote poetry a lot. I lived in a house that I bought on my own and that I loved.
Now, I live in a small apartment with my boyfriend, and everything is different.
My boyfriend is wonderful, and I am rarely lonely and I love this, of course.
But I often remember the feeling I used to have when I was alone. It was nice.
I was serious and fanatical and I lived life however I wanted, no matter how strange it seemed to other people. All of my decisions were my own, and I could be whoever I wanted to be, even if no one liked me or understood.
I felt strong.
I don’t feel as strong anymore.
So I am happier, now, but I don’t recommend it as fully as I might.
Maybe this doesn’t happen to other people, but it happened to me.