Solitude

09.04.17

There is purity in this wretchedness – a little beam of light cutting through all this confusion, seeming to say “you know what, look here, I can guide you – I can split the eaves.”

But still, I lay here dazed and unknown, waiting for someone to save me from myself.

What is physical contact but a temporary comfort? The man who reaches over across my chest and pulls me towards him, a strange aroma wafting from his skin – who is he and why is he here? And what is he doing in my bed, by my side?

I want him to leave. 

I want to be by myself.

I want to be on my own, with my own thoughts, with my own skin, with my own love for myself in the witch’s hours – and the scent of coffee and the hint of home and the comfort and warmth of a family telling me what I already know; that I’m better than this, and that I am more. 

What is loneliness except seeing all the what-could-have-beens stretched out and laid before me? All the friendships that have withered away come back from the dead to taunt me. 

I try to salvage what I can, and then I look at myself in the mirror and wonder if I’m just some crazy sentimentalist grasping at things that wish to drift away.

If you love something let it go? 

I let go of everything and I wonder if I’m better for it.

I used to revel in my solitude – I used to see it as a strength.

But now I’m not so sure.

Where is the line that separates being alone and being lonely?

I didn’t make a choice – it was made for me. 

I just learn how to cope, and then I try my best to be okay.