Solitude exists only because I let it to exist. Solitude helped me to discover ways ...
Because I felt so many times my soul fiery of loneliness, I thought I hate the world and myself with her. If it is happy why can not I be? How can I believe in love and soul mates when between hundreds of people that are spinning around me in the rhythm of bliss and love looks like I'm the only one who refuses to comply and to be in that wonderful rhythm? I suggested myself to start this morning writing, fierce and powerful, against loneliness.
Objective, cold, without a trace of optimism and hope. Lost, sad, in silence, just as I feel very often. Perhaps, almost certainly, not only can, but I will remove a part of the throes and frustration that I give them life with passion every time I hear the tick-tack of biological clock that beats on my door and puts, with an incredibly nerve, threatening questions which I stopped for a long time to find them an answer. And however, my hand, without taking into account the intentions of reason and desire confession of the heart, was hurried to write some other lines.
What can it tell me? It says that I got to keep on my solitude more than the eyes in my head. That I used so much with it as it ended for a long time to be the nightmare of my life. I do not fear about it anymore. That friends, family and activities that fill my day are enough as I don’t wish during the night and darkness time to reach to apogees of false pleasure and love. That it doesn’t suffocate me than when I let it and I am wrong letting it every time it grabs me.
That I don’tsubmit, that solitude doesn’t pull me back, that, in spite of it I succeed to find through the nonsense of life the meaning of my existence, I learned how to make distinction between good and bad, that I understood in a good and endless end what I feel. And the solitude helped me discover all of them.
That I don’t envy the appearances of happiness of couples around, don’t blame anyone for my pain and impotence, or that I don’t hate the bloody directly responsible for my solitude. That I am sufficiently strong as I don’t allow my blood to drain from my soul, with many tears or without impetuous flows. I know but ... I don’t do anything at all. On the contrary. I grumble unnecessarily, I paddle, I torture myself, I do remorses, then I wonder why. What for?
Solitude exists only because I let it to exist. I have a soul too thin so I can banish solitude in other places. Does my hand lie me? It must do it, because otherwise I don’t understand how it can’t tame, at least, a thought. A man. A life. Me. Nothing and nobody!
From my desire to escape of too much time, I still hang on to stereotypes that chaotic shapes. Love is not exploding in me anymore, it doesn’t throw ostentatious and daring looks for finding the right person, but it humble hidden in a lost corner of the soul. I was immersed in long silence where from I can not get out. I stoped dreaming, but I still hope…
Only a thought consolates me and determines that in moments of lucidity I look with love my solitude, and not with hatred: after I’ll learn to carry on my solitude and I’ll really get used to it, I will be ready to face the contrary of it. When I’ll get rid of loneliness, I’ll do it for proveing myself that powerful people know how to face it. To an ordinary man, one single, I’ll say "I love you" not because he gave everything to save me from loneliness, but because ... I’ll love him. Just for that and nothing more ...
