On My Oldest Friend

Here’s something that not a lot of people know about me:

My loneliness is a friend.

It’s been around for as long as I can remember, this feeling. I think, in a big way, it’s the presence of this loneliness that has shaped the person that I am now. The loudness that I exude veers so far away from what goes on beyond the surface of what people can see. The loudness is what keeps me safe from being too vulnerable.

Growing up I used to confuse the loneliness with sadness. When I was a teenager, I used to make up drama in my head all the time. Teenagers do that all the time, for many different reasons; my reason was that I thought the loneliness that I felt meant that, for some unknown reason, I was sad.

There have been many times in my life when I thought I was in love. I’ve come to realize that I’m a tad bit wishy-washy when it comes to determining my romantic feelings towards someone, particularly because they can change in a snap second for reasons that I can never comprehend. But what I do know is that every single time I would sit back and try to revel in my complete and utter bliss, it always felt like something was tugging at my brain. I’ve described it in past writings as that feeling of “being up in the air, waiting to fall.” I now think that that feeling is my loneliness trying to remind me that it was still there.

But you know, I’m okay. Maybe someday it’ll be different, who knows. But for now, I’m okay.


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