Alone.

I think everyone understands now a little of what I’ve felt through my life. This sense of social isolation. Of the world around you existing and yet there you are, miles away from it, despite it all going on right there in front of you.

I’m trying to get over the loneliness I’ve always felt. I’m not sure the kinds of connections I crave are at all realistic. Those deep, intimate connections where you can be authentically you down to the feelings that don’t make sense in spoken form, but they’re true nonetheless. Those emotions that can only be communicated in art because they exist between sounds and sometimes not in brushstrokes but in the white space. In the way one’s body curves while dancing or otherwise embracing.

And only people who feel this deeply understand it. This perpetual loneliness. Burnt out by social interaction yet craving company as when our only company is our own mind we can get lost in it, tangled in our thoughts. In our childhood rooms wondering what is it that the rest of the world knows that we don’t. How does happiness seem so simple for some, yet so elusive for others?

And—why does knowing people still feel like not knowing them at all? Why is it I long to understand the inner workings of a few, very few select people whose minds are museums of every possible emotion layered with ever-growing curiosities kept safe in permanent collection.

I stand across the street from said museum and study its Corinthian columns. Protective and strong. My mind wanders inside, exploring its many floors and exhibits. The surrealism. Modern art. Photography and film. History and bones. The living and the once lived and the might live one day. The never lived but more alive than anything that ever has. The science and stories and symphony of the stars.

Perhaps it’s just I am void of my own intrigue. My memory nonexistent I am not fact but fiction. I exist in the moment deep in my gut. I exist in a thousand possibilities of the future and regrets of the past. The loneliness hangs there, iced with the blue green flame of well below frozen. In the clay that I am seeking to take form, awaiting sculptors to knead me. To bake me in their kilns to harden me into the form of their liking. To submit to sculptor. To be hardened to further fragility, yet safe, trusting, saddened by sentient solitude no more.