My loneliness is a room where the walls breathe with the echoes of my silence, where shadows stretch long like the hours of an endless night. It is the space between words, a pause that holds more than speech can carry.
The world outside hums with life, a distant melody I can’t quite grasp, as if I'm watching a film with the sound turned down. Faces blur by like passing clouds, their laughter drifting like smoke, intangible, fading before it reaches me.
In this stillness, I hear my heartbeat, a quiet drum that pulses with the rhythm of a solitary existence. Time moves differently here, slow and syrupy, with minutes that drip like honey, sweet with a sadness only I can taste.
The air is thick with the weight of unsaid thoughts, words I swallow before they form, fearing they might break the fragile quiet of this place.
My loneliness is a garden where nothing blooms, where the earth is dry, and roots search in vain for nourishment. Yet, in the barren soil, I plant seeds of longing, tend them with tears, and hope, perhaps foolishly, for something to grow. It is both a sanctuary and a prison, a place where I am left with only myself, to unravel the threads of who I am and who I might become.
And though it aches, this loneliness, it also comforts in its familiarity. It wraps around me like a well-worn blanket, frayed at the edges but warm enough to keep out the cold. Here, in this quiet, I am alone, but not lost. I am empty, but still here, still waiting for the day when this emptiness might finally be filled.