Devon Gulley

On the Conservation of Loneliness

My home is a damp place, where the fiery crowns of streetlamps beckon wanderers such as myself through our bone chilling mists, and the solemn drip of the day to day seems to erode us as the broken cobblestone beneath each dreary step we have remaining. The hollow cacophony of distant laughs among shut in houses accompanied a lonely stroll of mine on such an evening four weeks ago. My study is often more of a suffocation chamber than a creative space, with its walls acting as more of a prison sentencing me to the drudgery of work that I would otherwise enjoy were it not for the pressure to produce it for a better shot at food and rent. The irony of going about tasks in an oppressive environment to eventually earn enough wages to sustain such an existence within it, is not lost on me in the slightest. So these walks; as cold, heavy, and haunting as they can be; offer reprieve from the paralyzing fear of being unable to carry my weight financially, or the gripping inadequacy I feel to see the halting progress of my work itself. At least with each step away from my study I feel a measurable displacement along a resistive path, and can see a change in my surroundings until of course hunger or tiredness sets in, and the sum of my efforts brings me once again to this prison of mine.