On Being a Poet Among the Players

A reflection on belonging and the beauty of solitude

In a bustling venue filled with excitement, I purposefully sat away from the lively crowd, enveloped by solitude and anxiety. I felt present and detached there, trying to navigate this joyful space while grappling with my longing for connection in a world that feels just out of reach, often unwelcoming to nervous energy.

This is a reminder to hopefully make you feel less alone if you find yourself in a similar situation. It’s okay to feel and be different in a world of sameness.

Here I am yet again at too loud a spot with too much emptiness to be called a place of entertainment. It’s warm and a bit stifling despite it being late October. But this is the desert’s version of fall—summer’s twin but with a different hair color.

The buzz of growing excitement doesn’t match the starkness of concrete floors and black iron railings. The place is divided into three floors, each open to the ground below, making me feel like a zoo animal looked down upon by passersby.

I don’t know about the other floors, but the ground level sorely lacks any kind of contrast. Maybe there’s a bright pillow or two strategically placed on the sofas. It feels like an open bar type of setting; there are no designated servers or a hostess, just a sporadic glance of one rushing into the personnel-only door I’m in front of.

I don’t even know if I’m allowed to sit where I am—it’s a heavily-indented triangular sofa with a matching granite table equipped with condiments for food, of which I have no idea where it’d come from. The nearest bar seems miles away, a lone bartender serving a person or two every now and again.

I think it’s too early to have reservations, as it’s not even noon. I don’t plan on ordering food or drinks; the fullness in my gut and the gulps of air as I remind myself to take deep breaths are satiating enough. I probably picked the wrong seat; my back turned toward the fun, but it was the first place I saw and made a beeline for, acting like it was a purposeful calculation.

I was asked if I needed anything by an employee, probably taken aback by this lone stranger (but well-dressed, I might add) sitting by herself. I gave a quick smile and an even quicker “No, thank you,” without any explanation as to why. Unless you count my millions of racing thoughts that could equal a full person, I'm not waiting for anyone. I wish I could manifest them to accompany me.

I’m sure my facial expressions don’t help much either; looking as lost as I feel. I wish I were braver in my outings; others don’t fear looking as dumb as I do. There’s a crowd here, yet the sense of community feels a world away.

The consequence of someone catching on would only breed unnecessary curiosity and pointed questions as to why I’m not indulged in this fake fun house. If only I could invite them into my black hole of anxiousness, then maybe they’d understand the clammy palms, racing heart, stuttering, and hastiness of my words.

I hum to see how far my voice travels with this blaring overhead music, drowning out my thoughts but at least deafening the roaring sound of busyness. (Luckily, no one was nearby to hear; it’s one thing to avoid a stranger, but a singing stranger would probably result in security for a wellness check.)

It all blurs into a buzzlike hymn, one where everything here knows the words—the ebbs and flows of life, and here I am, struggling to remember the words and failing to find the right pitch. The birds aren’t even this loud with their homely songs. I wonder what they think of our rowdy nature…they probably wish to shoo us away with our endless squawking.

Of course, places like this don’t have much to focus on besides the bright screens playing various sports, the bartender or servers, or the golfing you’re supposed to be doing while here.

But not me—I’m sitting here, occasionally looking at the screens so as not to resemble a zombie nor look uncomfortable, hiding the fact I know nothing of where anything is, not even the bathrooms.

Occasionally, I take a peek over my shoulder…I notice an elderly couple a couple of tables behind me. Are they here with the grandkids, tired from cheering them on, so they separated from the group to recoup? Or are they mere visitors, having heard of this place from others, so they just had to come to see for themselves what the hype is about?

I am a strange soul amongst a land of known souls, each of us with a purpose unknown to another but all acting like we’re a part of the same world. A watcher who wants to be invisible yet painfully visible in every missed glance.