Loneliness is a blank page that stares straight at you and then punches you hard in the eye. You realize that are lonely when your laptop understands you better than the people who surround you—Google search history is the only past anchoring you back to reality.
Loneliness is your heart tight like an artichoke, pierced by that boy’s eyes on the underground, hopeful of being peeled slowly.
Loneliness is not being sure if loneliness comes before or after panic. Anxiety? Self-distrust? Egocentrism? Depression? Frustration? Bitten nails?
Loneliness is staying awake until 3 AM, thinking about the howling foxes that fight across your window. Your body in the bed is a flambeau, clutching at the sheets. You melt to the sounds of the animals’ paws crawling away.
Loneliness is a feeling of a constant expectation of something to happen.
Loneliness turns you into a dream. You are not sure whether you are real or a product of your imagined self. This feeling paints your fingertips black, your ears red, and your lips golden. As the time passes by, you begin applying more makeup onto your face. One day you are baby Bardot, another you play Kate Moss or Twiggy. Your face is a vending machine being fed side looks and whispers.
Loneliness is a hungry wolf eating itself from inside out.
Loneliness is stepping out of your comfort zone just to find yourself, not someone else, there, leaning on the walls, smoking, gazing at the bodies that feel more real than yours. Loneliness is being 15% liquored on seven Fridays in a single week.
Loneliness is downloading Tinder when you have a partner because you just want to talk, see men swiping you right and feel yourself like someone else. But you never answer any messages, delete the app after a few days, hoping that your partner will never find out.
Loneliness is writing poems in the self-made language about your favourite imaginary people.
Loneliness is slicing an apple, eating half, and leaving the other one on the table.
Loneliness is 30 tiny you’s cocooned in your body who scream as hard as they can. All of them have a feeling of falling into the abyss, and the scented candles, avocado on toast, or a ticket to cinema appear to be only a temporary relief.
Loneliness is wearing fuck-me boots and a mini-skirt, and not shaving your armpits.
Loneliness is listening to Nirvana, Amy Winehouse, The Doors, Charlie “Bird” Parker.
Loneliness feeds you dreams about running away from yourself. You carefully cross out the veins of motorways, a travel bucket list, always let down by holes in your pockets.
Loneliness is a tidal moon that comes and goes away as it likes. At the end of the day, it’s OK to be lonely; it just depends how you feel about it. The world can stop and all the fuckboys on the planet can wait, as you gotta love yourself, first and foremost, to be satisfied with reality. Lonely and happy. Lonely and proud of being yourself.