I’ve been alone too long. I have become the silence, the shuffle, the witness of depthlessness and to invite you in would build walls of contentment that, though pleasant, would stifle me.
Me. Sounds so selfish and unreasonable. For most of my life, I felt the weight of wanting to be alone but hating the loneliness. I spent my nights dreaming of being beautiful and spent my days close to the walls trying to obtain invisibility.
My clothes were always tight or loose or scratched or were too soft or revealing or concealing or…wrong. I would feel myself burn into embarrassment and would cry alone. I listened to music with whispering wind and blowing trumpets and voices that rose to clouds and cathedral buttresses. I cringed at drums and guitars and lyrics that repeated.
I met a gentle stranger.
God help me it was the books, the books, the books that went about and about and about my head and in my hands the weight of words, the smell of dust upon yellow pages that crumbled and revived my heart. My heart that no one noticed but him.
I had no one to lean upon, don’t you see? I had no one except my faith in the words a stranger left for me. I was fucked and dumped and left to care for someone so much like me. That gave me the determination to hurt anyone and carry on and write the hammer that comes down on the hands that reached out to me.
I had one to protect and I did and I have and I will. Alone.
The stranger still gentle has opened up for me the library walls and laughed at my perplexity. All the languages of history do not mock me anymore; I have all the time of eternity to learn. I have come full circle.
I am still alone and cradle the feeling of lonely as my very own. I have been alone too long.