I am responsible for my own loneliness.
I was doing it again. That lying in bed in a fetal position. Trying to calm myself. Trying to fight off the tears. Trying to not think. All of which turned out to be futile attempts.
And I surrendered to what was inevitable anyway. Belonging to the darkness. Letting that anxiety control me. Cried. Burdened myself with thoughts. I was weak. Defenseless.
Yet, how ironic it is to find myself haggling with the loneliness to one mere touch from you. Even if it means accepting what hurts me most, letting go of you. And this is not the ending I wanted it to be.
It’s in the denial that defined what’s between us. Or what was us. I can no longer distinguish what was or what is.
And it’s frustrating. Because I am still hopeful for a fairy tale. Waiting for us. For you. Settling for an abstract ending. It’s in the uncertainty of having you that’s killing what little is left.
I can be strong. I know. It’s just. It’s not that time yet.
Eventhough you’ve given up.
Then I return to the cycle again. Fetal position. Lying in bed. Fighting off the tears. Unthinking.
I feel like I have just been shot. I feel like I’ve been curbstomped. To my left, next to my keys, is my heart. It let out a few last beats even after it was put there. Oh, no tears will be shed. That bodily function is currently out of service. It never fails to amaze me how one can fall so far from up so high. And so comes the cynic’s philosophy. If you get too excited you will be that much more disappointed.
The fact of existence will proclaim: people will judge the facade. They’ll be vicious to pry upon the superficial, never the loneliness. They’ll pick on you like freshly ripened grapes, ready to be consumed – devoured.
And it gets lonelier. Amplified by the emptiness of your whole being. Ultimately, you’ll be hallow, weighless. You will hear yourself think. Broken, it says. Lonely but not alone. You stand in a crowd with a sea with familiar faces but none too close to stay for the darkest hour. Because they thrive on the spotlight you bring. Feasting on the platter you offer. Free to take, unwilling to give.
You beg to be spared of the iniquity. Waiting to be absolved of such cruelty. Aiming at an unknown target. No one’s there. No one who’s kind not to persecute you even more. Forcing yourself to defend blindly.
You drift along the river, like a useless log. There’s nothing else to do. Just drift.