Saturday, 27 July 2013

True solitude.

Don't read further if you're going to say "nobody gives a shit" at the end, it's my blog, i can write what i feel.

True solitude is not easy to see, you tell yourself' 'no there's this person, or that person, who you can call and meet and you do that, but then you sit there with the said person, not knowing why you're there when conversation takes a beating, because that's inevitable when you're lonely inside. You try to talk and take interest in people, but you're thrawted by more things than one. You are not okay enough sometimes, you are not interesting at other times, and as days turn into long weeks, and you still find no solace from the neverending rant of your brain, you give up faith in people, in humanity and dream of a utopia where being mean to eachother is not fun. Your brain tells you you're not worth anyone's time and love, because you have been built wrong. Some crucial human 'arrogance' you do not possess, and so you can never understand why hurting is fun. That turns into your whole life, a non-stop misunderstanding of your affection or just plain dismissal of it.
Where, then, do you take your bruised love? You hide it, and pretend it never existed because it's existence is what caused you the most pain. No romantic love comes close to the perpetual hurt of being truly alone.
Stocked up in a room, looking at shapes in the curtains, hoping you don't see satan anymore.
Your walls turn into your diaries and your nails grow, you scratch beneath the surface of yourself and try to change into something more acceptable. You succeed too, but only for a while.
Your parents, is a different story altogether, if they understand then you probably will survive, but if your life turns into a perpetual battle between what you want, and what your parents want for you(for themselves, actually).
Now, where do you take your dreams of utopia, of unconditional love, comradery, a passion for fellow humans? Nowhere, it stays in you.
And then the voices in your mind start, they have different voices, mind.
Voices of friends, that never really were friends, doing what they used to do best, mock you.
Initially, you survived by the excitement of youth and hope for betterment, but what do you do when your pain starts to show in your appearance and your body retaliates such that you know you will die soon.
You see yourself withering, while everybody you knew is just starting to glow to take flight of their life.
And on one lonely day, lonelier than most days, you realize how even yourself is an enemy, because you want too much. Love, friendship, empathy, you're either meant to be happy, or just lonely.
And you know which kind you are, when true solitude hits.