(Ok, now I have no clue where this has come from. You’ll have to excuse this non-autobiographical occupation that I will sometimes indulge in. Kthxbai.)
Time, the day, the hours, the minutes, the seconds, are ticking painfully past me. I can hear it in the sounds of this silence that I’ve wrapped around myself. It’s painful to even imagine the kind of trauma that this solitude unleashes in my brain. The immense helplessness that I straddle every waking moment that I spend in the quiet.
I’m not alone here, in this space. It’s filled with thoughts of you, who I don’t know. It feels like we’ve known each other forever. I know it’s an odd thing to say, but it’s true. Seems a little cliché to even think it, but I can’t help myself. I have nothing else to do. Sometimes I yearn for the sounds of the dusty city I’ve left behind just so I will stop myself from reaching out to you every single time I can’t bear this isolation.
And it is an isolation. A self-imposed hermithood. I’m far away from everything I know, from everything I love and from everyone I should be around. But I choose to remain here, alone, surrounded by people who are 7 degrees away from being mine.
I wish I knew what you thought and what you make of us. I want to know. I need to know. But I’m terrified that asking you will only bring another silence and my already overwrought mind will collapse with the force of it.
This is me, then, leaving it be, hoping that when we do have a conversation, it will being back the comforting noise that soothes me. Until then, I contemplate in this silence, this quiet, this maddening, deafening place of no relief.