Unconsenting, I sit there beside Loneliness, and he strokes my tender soul, his trained fingers finding all the flaws in the smooth façade I have created; all the roughness I have striven to forget. He won't let me forget those grooves, etched in so deep, no amount of sanding back over them could make them disappear.
Is it strange to miss a feeling you've never really felt? To miss a person you probably haven't met? Because sitting there beside Loneliness, that is what I feel. There are only so many times a blind person could wish that they could see, so many times a faithful person could pray to be saved, so many times an unloved person could hope to be loved. I'm afraid my wishes, prayers and hopes are becoming repetitious; there is yet no resolution in sight. The faith that an end to my blindness, faithlessness and loneliness might come, is fading, getting lost so quickly in among the shadows of those who have achieved contentment.
We measure our life in moments of love, our worthiness in the strength of its memory, so then, what happens to one who cannot take comfort in either? What hope is there for one who has had only Loneliness as companion for the duration of their life? Is there a hope?
We tell ourselves that one cannot be hidden in the shadow of Loneliness forever, and yet, there are those who have never known otherwise. To think that all shadows pass eventually is the folly of the naive; the wise know that there are no absolutes, no definites. Only luck. And not everyone is lucky. There are those who are unfortunate and see nothing but darkness their whole lives. Loneliness holds their hearts in his iron grip, and they may never free themselves, despite all struggle. With every day that passes, every minute that drags on, every second that ticks by, I cannot help but think that I am one of them.
You may try to convince me otherwise, but the truth is plain to see. Had it been any other way, this wouldn't be happening. Is that not true? If there was but one person in the world who loved me even a fraction of the amount I wished to be loved, that would be enough to take me from here, away from Loneliness, and his burning eyes that sear all the scared places within me, those which ask contemptuously how one like me even has a chance to be loved, afraid even as they ask that the answer is "there is no chance". But hope is persistent; tiny, but ever present, urging when there is nothing left. Yet I cannot say that I wish for love to be saved. Salvation is but a by product, a bonus to something which is already awe inspiring.
Of course I am loved, as is every other being. But "friend" isn't "lover". Two fundamentally different types of love, which can exist together, the way a lover loves as both "lover" and "friend", but rarely, if ever, does "friend" do the same. One, we take somewhat for granted, the other we seek our entire lives; which is which depends on you, but I know which way they fall in my own life.
But no matter. There is nothing in these words for anyone other than myself. This too shall pass; the dreamers will be left to dream, the writers to write, the lovers to love. And the lonely to be lonely.