Pond, by Claire-Louise Bennett is a rush of sentences. When she refers to her like for worms she writes, “no problem picking them up, which is unusual and thus gives me a clear advantage in certain situations because it means I can fling them at people if I feel like it and that never fails to cheer me up”.
I don’t want to pick up a worm and I envy Claire for being able to accept their texture. I do have a list of people I would like to fling a worm at. Just the one worm, two worms seems menacing. 
In Pond, the main character moves to a coastal village to escape urban living because she hates people. She never finished her postgraduate thesis and she frequently visits Berlin but has no real relationships outside of herself. 
The narrator was so isolated in her cottage, I was terrified and thrilled by her existence. A few months ago, I convinced myself if I turned of all the lights in my apartment, I would feel the most alone. I ended up banging my shin and stepping on my cat. 
You find yourself with a lot of alone time when you’re sober. I’m not sure how to interact with people in sobriety. The textures of my interactions feel rough and my tongue feels raw  and there is no alcohol to sooth things. Conversations are like a cold pool in may or that one drafty spot in the lake. 
I know there must have been some point where conversations felt softer. One’s where my expression was an extension of my inner world rather than dissonance. It seems I’ve neglected my own inner world for so long I don’t know how to connect back to the external. 
There is safety in my solitude. And for right now, I think it’s okay to be alone. 

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