Loneliness, solitude, keeping one’s own company,
The same feeling carries different labels depending on the taxonomy,
One almost feels burdened by a sense of monotony.
Cloistered in a mansion like Skully’s Landing,
Except that the mansion moved around regardless of one’s physical location,
It often leaves you unable to feel like you are in good standing, despite others’ persuasions.
Surrounded by swans and members of the factory,
Who knows you as a facsimile of a person, but are not interested in substance,
It feels as if you are surrounded by beauty, but your place as a spectator is firmly placed.
Not many people can understand the pathos present in this feeling,
The way the constant destruction and rebuilding feels like something more than just dharma or even karma at this point,
It reveals the truth but also blinds you to other vistas.
Nat King Cole once sang of a very strange and special boy, who was very rare, very rare,
This feeling goes beyond ennui and the lack of meaning,
Many often say that the gifted are cursed with being incorrigible, and that the curse of brilliance is isolation,
But pity the untalented who are marked with the sense of incorrigibility, and whose isolation stems from their dullness.
Classified as a form of pain by those who study the human mind,
It evolves and changes with our life stage,
Maybe it was a mage who was in charge of this process,
At least it would be something to write home about.
Silk screen paintings produced by the dozen,
Common in subject matter but hoarded like how Smaug hoards dwarven gold.
This is the feeling that goes by many names and changes one’s fate.
