Because Nobody Hears You when You Cry
Loneliness comes from a vague core of the self- like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot locate the matrix, the spot of contagion.
I'm a completely screwed up individual. I long for solitude yet I hate being alone. I don't know what I want. I don't know what to think.
I can't deceive myself out of the bare stark realisation that no matter how enthusiastic you are, no matter how sure that character is fate, nothing is real, past or future, when you are alone in your room with the clock ticking loudly into the false cheerful brillaince of the electric light. And if you have no past or future, which, after all, is all that the present is made of, why then you may as well dispose of the empty shell of the present. The present. The Reality that you have forced yourself to believe.
But the cold reasoning mass of grey entrail in my cranium which parrots, "I think, therefore I am," whispers that there is always the turning, the upgrade, the new slant. And so I wait. What avail is monetary superiority? To grab temporary security? What avail is intelligence? Merely to say "I have seen; I have comprehended"?
Ah, I hate myself so.
Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a bundle of flesh. I don't know what to do with the excess of self I drag around like 68kg of dead weight. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through. I think: I am but one more drop of in the great sea of matter, defined, with the ability to realise my existence. Of the millions, I, too, was potentially everything at birth. I, too, was stunted, narrowed, warped, by my fucken environment, my outcroppings of heredity. I, too, will find a set of beliefs, of standards to live by, yet the very satisfaction of finding them will be marred by the fact that I don't want to reach the ultimate in shallow, two-dimensional living- a set of values.
This loneliness will diminish, no doubt, when I begin to plunge myself into classes and routine, into the necessity of studying. But now, that false purpose is lifted and I'm spinning in a temporary abyss.
God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shirill tinsel gaiety of "parties", despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when you at last find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop at shock at the words you utter- they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small dark inside you for so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship- but the loneliness of the soul in its appalling self consciousness is horrible and overpowering.
I lay and cried, and begin to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before; how there was a germ of positive creativeness.
I have been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.
But my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this. Sick with conflict, destructive negative emotions, frozen into disintergration I was, refusing to articulate, to spew forth these emotions- they festered in me, growing big, distorted, like pus-bloated sores. Small problems, mentions of someone else's felicity, evidence of someone else's talents frigntened me, making me react hollowlw, fighting jealousy, envy hate. Feeing myself fall apart, decay, rot, and the laurels wither and fall away, and my past sins and omissons strike me with full punishment and import. All this, all this foul, gangrenous sludge ate away at my insides.
Silent, insidious.
Because Nobody Really Gives a Fucking Damn.