There is a fine thin line of constructive therapeutic alone time as opposed to reclusive hibernation.

Healthy alone time - reading a copy of Albert Camus's The Stranger in Roselawn cemetery on blue skied afternoon amongst the aura of calming nature - and while entertaining other assorted thoughts.

Questionable alone time - sitting in sweat pants upon my bed, reading back articles of The New Yorker on a blue skied afternoon while consuming Lean Pockets - and while entertaining other assorted thoughts.

An excerpt of today's self talking points:

conscious voice: knock off the solitary confinement, nicolas. your going back to the city soon enough. go out and enjoy what the beautiful day has to offer.

neurotic voice: but I'm constipated by my surroundings and cynical of its inhabitants so this seclusion satisfies me more so. there will be other beautiful days.

Neurotic voice is usually victorious due to having more valid claims.

Though all pseudo analysis aside, I should feel fortunate that I am not a frumpy housewife/mother from a square state that's living in such a comatose. Though I suspect I would need to hear more voices to qualify as such.