Alone

Alone. Utterly. Feeling responsible for no one, and resolute in believing no one cares about you. I can’t imagine this yet part of me craves it. Not to be indulged then. Relegated to the roped-off delusional area to play nice with suicide and self-destruction and sticking head in sand.

Still, this is what I imagine it to mean, to the hordes who do end up this alone. End up because surely none of us start this way? End up because even if you chose it, you must have felt like there was no other choice apart from death? End up because how do you come back from that, even if you wanted to?

My childish version of alone is necessarily sparing. Unsparing would kill me too quickly or too horribly, and I don’t know that I actually want to die. I also don’t know that I want to hurt those I pretend not to care about.

My alone is constrained in my head. I let it clamour at me because it must.

I am selfish with this desire to be alone, to feel lighter, without the good and the bad. Acknowledging this, I touch ground again. It is enough to strain against, to pummel the barrier, and finally, in satiated wonder, to submit. To not being alone.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.