Loneliness is appetizing only as an egotistical tool to test relationships. Who would notice the absence? The subtle pleas weaved into plain, unceremonious words? It’s attention that drives people to live as such; it can be gratifying or absent; it’s an addiction that wears you down. Even as I’m pushed away by people around me by annoyance, brittle hate, and the own ego, I still long for precise attention. Perhaps it’s not a shyness that tugs at my strings but a lack of readability. I’m an open book but the words are in a different language. I’ve been shelved in a wrong place and made alien by simple existence. In result, I’m a sinner for breathing. My fault is inherent life. But my suffering, exaggeration allowed by privacy, is only multiplied upon interaction. The fluency of my language has grown clumsy and foreign; immersion is but a test of the reaches of isolation. The familiarity I thought I would feel is a simple ruse of the mind, more of a dream than a reality. The solidity of crude realness comes with pain, crisp. I understand its presence but never its reasons. I can sit, drink tea with it, question it for ages, but it’ll never be my guest, but I its host.
It is neither friend or foe, but a necessary member of my life. There is no other way to be with it. Acceptance is something I am bountiful in, but at times I break. I’m weak. I’m small. I hurt. My nimble fingers, slim and fearful, break—the bone shatters. The weight I never knew I carried falls on me with destructive force. I snap violently, but then I’m tugged in different directions. I die a million times; I’m left in ashes, fragmented. Yet, the only hand that ever comes with the promise of healing, honeyed whispers in my ear, is that of her, him, it. Loneliness, solace, enlightenment, or whatever name it chooses that night. It’s always the same, and as much as I try to deny it, I understand it. I feel its pain, it’s past. I can’t love it, it can’t love me. We are soulmates stuck to each other. It is the normalcy I so craved with others, the one I will always lust over. That sense of belonging paired with smiles, laughter, talking, fun. But I’m cursed—blessed?—with the quiet company of solitude. As the night swallows the light, I give in to the flood.
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