Got dammit. Can I just write?
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hit the delete button. I’ve aggressively hit delete so many times within the past ten minutes that the key is beginning to stick.
Why can’t I write without judging what I’ve written? I barely can make it three paragraphs in and already I’ve said screw this.
I’m thinking right now how I should just screw this….
I feel like shit today, but not utter shit, because that would be an epic feeling of feeling like shit and it’s not that bad.
Yesterday was a better day, but I’m learning not to compare anymore. While I was enjoying yesterday, I remember hearing someone on the television say that being alone is different than feeling alone. Of course, since yesterday was a good day, I nodded my head to that saying and quickly stashed it away in the tiny boxes of my mind labeled, “You’re Going to Forget This, but Try Not To”, and it’s the same place I stash away all of the fortune cookie sayings I’ve ever read.
Today, loneliness has taken a seat next to me and is probably reading every bit of this as I continue to type and delete, delete, delete, and type.
Funny. Some days I’d want nothing more than to close the blinds and hush the world in order to curl up with loneliness. We are best friends, after all. She listens to me and I never have to worry about the answer she’ll give, because she’d rather me make my own decisions. She’s just as needy as I can be and she’d rather not be alone, too. It’s hard for her to accept no and she never gives up until she gets her way. I haven’t found an easy way to tell her, that I’d rather her take up a seat at the farthest end of the couch, but she’s not great at accepting the truth. So, I invite her in every time, unable to reject her. I pat my hand down on the spot beside me, signaling her to make herself comfy. Maybe, it’s her puppy dog eyes or the whisper of her voice. Possibly, it could be the pain in her face that makes her so beautiful to me. She’s smooth and full-bodied like the consuming tunes of instrumental jazz. She asks me continually, “Haven’t I been of comfort when no one else has? Haven’t I given you an escape?” I look at her and look away. She’s not much for words, but she likes to hear me agree and I comfort her as she claims to have comforted me.
As I write more, I’m slowly scooting away and she’s beginning to get the idea.
Am I truly alone or do I just feel it? There must be some truth to both sides of the extreme. I do feel alone. I spend the majority of my day inside of my own head. Not enough so where I can’t function, obviously, but I’m there, alone. I can’t say that I don’t enjoy it though. Physically? I’m not so much alone. I have a mother whom I live with and a group of friends who are only a group text away even though they live in separate states. So, no I’m not alone physically, but I damn sure feel it. It seems, that although loneliness can be fleeting, it will never fail at showing up even when it hasn’t been invited. Until then, I’ll continue letting her in. After all, I’m her best friend.