Where are you going?

It's a question I hear a lot lately, whether internally or from concerned friends. Not that my life's direction appears disastrous, but due to the uncertainty found in a definitive lack of roommates in the upcoming year. Will I stay in Oregon? Will I retreat into Washington, or explore the world, or find new roommates, or buy a house? Just because everyone will be married does not mean my friends have removed themselves from my life, nor I from theirs. But my location is in question.
Still, the quietude, an ambiance not unfamiliar, is daunting, frightful. Part of me greatly desires living alone, knowing that I might accomplish much on silent nights. Another part of me understands that it may destroy me. Where am I going? Where do I go?
I think these questions assault me on these nights with a chill and empty sky, covered with blank clouds, when no one is home and the house is full of dead noise and electronic burrs. Once, twice a week, when silence sounds the gongs inside the wasteland.

I'd live in a log cabin if I could, in a forest by a stream. I'd live in a tiny house with a loft, skylight singing in the rain. I'd live in an abbey on a mountain, a cloister on the river bend, a yurt in the forest, a homestead in the hills. I just want to be with those I love, I guess. For now, that's here I think. Though I would like to see the rest of the world. I suppose I even have the means.