Alone

November 16, 2011. The wind blows in gusts. Tiny florescent lamps, the ones we have in our frightening laundry room at home, hang from trees and cast small eerie glows around the dark yard. One of the plastic chairs is turned, resting on the small white table. Gravel surrounds, and i walk tenderly on the sharp rocks to reach a tranquil place. A cicada sounds in the blush next to me, others tap in the manicured lawn. The small tent above me shakes, creaking, and I wonder if it fell.
I don't have anyone to talk to, to be silent with. I have drawn into myself more, and find it's hard to be alone too. I wish I could cry, to release something caught in my throat, my nose, my chest, cry to someone. Lives here are smashed together for hours a day, meals taken communally, bunk beds shared between strangers and friends. Our days and talk focus on our placements, our frustrations with the Tanzanian government, gossip about other volunteers, food at home. Nothing is ever told. No personalities discerned. I wonder what people are like back home, in real life, Simran says to me. We piece together stories and histories from passing comments, from articles of clothing and bags bought at the local market.
I've been told that I search for connection, but I have little idea about how to achieve. I transform myself to fit other people's perceptions of who I should be.
In essence, I act.
And even with hours of self-reflection, nights spent in chapels, kneeled at the wooden altar, and walk around a serene and familiar New England pond, I still can't rest within myself. I can't just Be.
Rain starts to fall, tapping out rhythms on the tent's plastic, and humming out the cicadas. I sing notes to myself, and they for into Amazing Grace, on their own, I feel. I sing all the verses I know, the occasional dog cry joining, and I sit and shiver in the African night.