Loneliness is addicting because it demands nothing
I know myself on certain occasions, although never quite fully. It is always an evolving process of peeling everyday — there are fabrics of clothing resting on the reclining chair where I like staying; there is sun in that spot, too, but it doesn’t burst — at most times it settles on hindsight and I can just feel how subtle it crawls on the corners of my skin. The warmth leaves an itch sometimes, it leaves my body red, as if I have been bitten by the burning rays. I seldom worry because it isn’t really painful. I think I’ve gotten used to heaviness even if I never meant to — and then I question myself if getting used to things could pass as a form of escapism; would my senses forget to feel if I grow tolerance for the same, difficult things?
I can’t quite figure out a way to understand what I am beneath the things that I have compiled above the grave of self I have long buried. The more I know, the more I feel as if I am aging backwards while the clock motions movement away from me — it’s like I do not have an exit from the room I’ve made of the wound, and everything loops with time instead of being mended. I feel like I am the kind of person who lumps all experiences to form a protective layer of disguise in the long run.
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I don’t know what it means to be lost, but oftentimes I feel like I know exactly what I am trying to find, but then the follow-up thought would revolve around the impossibility of encountering its existence. It is all too vague of an ideal that materializing the longing (so it could be true enough in this truth) leaves me more pathetic every single day that passes without it.
I do not like getting desperate for things, or having things to be desperate for. I discourage the emphasis on how awfully much my heart could swell — I don’t like how its pulse could sometimes feel like it’s taking over the entirety of my silence. I pull it all back in until I no longer know what I want in return, it is more difficult now: I am repelled by everything that might compel me into wanting anything — either I feel as if I don’t deserve it, or I wallow in the spot I earned until I’ve punctured a hole where I can be left alone.
All wanting leaves me lonelier, this is what I am trying to convey when I make the conscious decision to go. Departure is easier than making people understand that love is harder when it is done for me. I think I only know how to long for what I want, but I never learned how to act outside of giving, and for this I am more inclined to want what I can’t have; I suddenly suffer a strange sense of detachment from people who give me their hearts — I feel the need to give mine back — and it never works, because losing my own feels hollow, and I never do it.
I end up choosing what is unavailable, because at least, the emptiness asks none from me.
