Loneliness

Loneliness

Loneliness rocks back and forth, to and fro, holding his knees into his chest. He works as a CEO; he’s important. But when all is said and done, the only thing Loneliness has is stacks of green paper, which can’t hold him, can’t give him a shoulder to cry on, can’t embrace his emaciated figure. Loneliness’ arms and legs are no more than skin and bone. His face, a canvas of sorrow, despair. Loneliness sits in his vast kitchen with a glass of champagne, staring into the distance. All of a sudden, a whoosh of air shoots out of his nostrils, into his drink. Then, he drinks the champagne, slowly, salty from tears.

But he has a good disguise. In fact, no one knows he is lonely. Sometimes he walks in the bad part of town, ruining his fancy shoes by stepping on a crack vial. Loneliness has it all, yet he has nothing, at all. The modern apartment, various hookers, and his chef, Creativity, are nothing. Loneliness creeps up, telling you that it would be better to just stay inside, telling you all your friends are busy, telling you people enjoy you best at home, alone. But as soon as you’ve submitted to Loneliness, you cry out, desperate. But his hand is already over your mouth, and his scorn for you is already palpable.

Loneliness likes to read, it makes him feel a part of something, even though that something is fake. He comes for a long time, Loneliness, and doesn’t bother leaving. Actually, Loneliness paints his name on your guest room door the second he walks in your house. But, who would you rather have as a perpetual guest, Loneliness or Denial? Loneliness spends a long time looking in the mirror, wondering what he would look like 5 pounds thinner. So, he buys a diet book, and starves himself for three days, only to gorge on cookies and cakes later. Loneliness gives lectures to the wall, hoping that someone will magically appear. He goes to bed late, not having the will to sleep, but instead of sleeping, Loneliness just stares at the door, hoping it will open, somehow, someday.