I feel lonely.
Not the paradigm of loneliness that takes form in being surrounded by nobody but instead where the accumulation of thoughts becomes overwhelmingly cynical to the point of the mind becoming an asylum of the psyche. A glass window stands in-between two parallels, an outwardly energetic, bubbly personality and an inwardly scared, insecure individual. I’m not lonely because I am alone but am lonely because I cannot stand the idea of myself.
This situation sucks not because of how I feel but because there are people with living with dilemmas and complications much more impactful and destructive than mine. Yet, these feelings of anxious dread seep out of my peace of mind, ensuring that I am not given a reverie of happiness for more than too long. Loneliness is synonymous with the silence of the ocean, underwater, no one can hear you scream. The dark abyss slowly consumes my happiness and the thoughts of those around me, cultivating an environment of only darkness in an empty expanse ironically entwined with infinite breathing room with no oxygen to consume. The drowning sensation is not assisted by knowing that there are people there to support me as I feel lost knowing that I am just a minute, minuscule piece in the puzzle, a fleck of dust that is slowly falling and assimilates amongst a sea of particles in a forest of carpet which will soon be cleaned away, looking new again. My question here is where do these imperfect dust particles go? Do we just forget about those who struggle within their own mind? To forget about their transgressions would be an injustice of truth to their story, their honesty to themselves as humans without the chance to speak their mind or how they feel, but we do it anyway. We clean the slate. Not every day, maybe not every week, but we do it anyways, so we do not present as weak.
While these collectives may be together, they are still lonely, as dust particles are the same and always will be, no different, no uniqueness, no use. Because these thoughts that are entering my mind right now are useless. In some way, that makes me useless.
I haven’t felt this way in a very long time, but the ability for a lack of self-esteem to have its eager claws wrapped around me again, digging into my confidence is frightening. I’m worried the slope is going to open up again, instead this time I won’t get a happy ride down an icy crevasse but I will fall flat on my face, a mockery in front of those I hope to impress, encourage and become my perfect self for. The looming storm that hangs over my head booms that I’ll never be enough, for employment, for my family, for my friends, for a partner, and I’m unsure perfection is even the answer. Can a fleck of dust be perfect in any form? Can someone who feels so lacking ever receive anything more than a touch up or clean slate? I don’t know why or how these feelings have surfaced again, but it has always felt good writing them out.
I do feel lonely… I guess it’s time to get the vacuum out and try again.