Victoria

Felipe Acosta
All the lonely people
3 min readSep 8, 2019
Someone by Luis Puga.

Victoria, I’d love to call you my friend, but the sun simply looks odd today. Who are you? You tend to ask yourself, without much clue on the path to an answer.

Vicky, they call you, sometimes Vic. And as I see you, I know it’s been one of those days for you. Utterly lonely. No one to talk to, no one to see. Victoria, today you’ve managed to kill tons of time; most of it, to be precise. And you’re no child anymore, you are very well aware of the fact that you, Victoria, are lonely and that you don’t like it.

Today you didn’t leave your house. Not for work, and for leisure. You’re afraid for, who would you go out with, anyways? Solitude is perhaps a bit more bearable when you know you’re the only one aware of it. Not easy to be lonely, but to be perceived as such? Not ever.

You wrote a letter to a guy you like, Vic, but you will never send it. “Perhaps a telegram”, you think, knowing you will never actually write it. You know his eyes pretty well at this point, it must be admitted, and you’ve refined your description of it by now. Words deeply thought and so felt, but so unseen.

You cry alone Victoria, and live by commissions; those commissions other people pay up by placing responsibilities onto you and expecting your existence. Your mom, your brother, your sister, not a single reason should be for them to think of you, you think and hold your death to no exception. The rope is under the bed, Thomas needs your reports every Wednesday at three, after all.

One thing that makes this a bit more complex, Vic, is that it has always been like this. There are moments in which the conversational logistics of some mundane interactions compel you into laughing with someone fooling you to think they might be your friends. Still, deep down, Vic, you know none of them would kick a stone for the sake of you. Not your peers, not the postman, not your mother.

On these kinds of days, you often like to indulge in a glass of wine. Your new position allows you these kinds of privileges. It used to be low-quality rum, but despite the wine getting palpably more expensive, no difference is made to the roughness of swallowing a liquor alone on your bathroom floor.

You think a lot, and you do so over the same things often. You become fixated and neurotic on the commonplace. This week it was about this boy. You wanted to talk to him, yeah. You know him from your commute, which has given you plenty of opportunities to talk to him, yet this has only translated to multiple opportunities to uncomfortably wonder about talking to him and stressing over the idea of him and, maybe, both of you. No need to talk to him for you, maybe. You don’t know and you don’t need to, specially or he ought not to be the last one, not by a long shot.

You think of going quietly, but you have realized that living is even more silent in your case.

Golden Slumbers.

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