"What a fish it was. There has never been such a fish...."

I am in Maine.  I am near the ocean.  I love the ocean.  I love Maine.  I feel empty and strange.  I feel an expanse of flat nothingness to the horizon, like the ocean at high tide.  "It goes on forever," Stella said.  The water goes all the way to the sky.  It seems that way, doesn't it?

I feel alone when I am not alone.  Sometimes, I feel lonely for myself.  Where did I go?  Why am I all alone, here?  Why isn't anyone looking for me?   Am I far out there in a little boat like Santiago, struggling with my own giant Marlin... alone?  I'm not alone, though.  Am I?  I shouldn't say that.  It's insulting to people around me to say that "I am alone," or, "I feel lonely."  I think it's insulting to them.

But can someone be home, yet feel homesick?  Can their house not feel like home?  Can another person be their home, their respite?  Can a smell be home?  An embrace?  A taste?  Love?  Can love be home?  What is love?  What is home?  How can you be lonely if you don't know where to miss?  How can you be lonely if you don't know who to miss?

What if... you know...  What if the person you miss, doesn't miss you?  What if you aren't his or her home, even if he or she feels so deeply comforting, and warm, and right?  

I guess it means you don't have a home.
Persona Non-Grata.

I guess that makes you feel lonely.

I wonder if someday, the head and tail of my marlin, (even if its middle was ravaged by sharks), washes ashore, and I will see the beauty in the struggle, and the victory in the catch.  I wonder if I'll always feel defeated and walk away, and people will say, "So where's her big fish?"