Sometimes I get lonely. Usually when I am alone, but not always. It’s always strange, though, because I know I don’t have to be. That emptiness, a colourless feeling that permeates me and clogs every chamber of my heart with void, is completely unnecessary. And yet I let it persist, at least for a little while. I feel it wash over me until it has tied my throat into knots and there is that burning sensation behind my eyes that I know will never amount to anything.
Maybe I’m an emotional masochist. Maybe I’m fucked up. Or maybe I just want to remind myself of what it was like, back when I used to be lonely almost all the time. A sort of temporal tourism — let’s go back in time, let’s remind ourselves how lucky we are that we are different now. Borta bra men hemma bäst.
It takes a bit of work to fake loneliness. I know, if I wanted it, if I needed to, I could just reach out and there would be someone to hold my hand. There are plenty of people in my life these days whom would be happy to alleviate this self-induced gentle suffering. I do the dishes, I stare emptily at the piles of cat hair in the corners of my flat, I don’t bother putting clothes on because there’s nobody who cares what I wear right now. So yes, I work at it, but it’s not difficult. The feeling is always very close at hand and I wonder if there is perhaps something profoundly human about it. Maybe the fact that, at this point in time, there is no way to truly connect with another human, to the point where we know their thoughts and feelings as well as we know our own, makes us all feel ultimately isolated. Some of us are just more attuned to it than others.
I don’t know. Either way. Loneliness is a habit hard to shake.