It's not the sort of loneliness that you can dissipate by talking to a friend or a loved one; rather, it's a deeper, more....essential(?) type of loneliness. It's soul-deep, I suppose. It's not a feeling that makes you sad, nor is it the satisfying feeling of enjoying your own company. It's just kind of...uncomfortable.
You feel as though suddenly, you have slowed down and everything that reaches your ears or comes out of your mouth oozes in and out like molasses. Every movement you make is sluggish. The world moves about you at an impossibly fast rate and you are left behind, kind of slow and helpless. Lethargic despite your best attempts. You look around with slow, stupid eyes, barely comprehending the events that happen around you as the world rattles along like a rickety gypsy caravan barreling down a winding dirt road, the echoes of bells and laughter floating back to you as you are left standing barefoot in the middle of the dark road.
Unsure.
A part of you longs for someone, anyone who may have been left behind with you. You spin through the rolodex in your head, hoping for a lightbulb to go off when you see a name. A few names make you pause, but each time, the light wavers for one reason or another, and you spin on. On and on and on until you reach the final "z" and are left with what you had before: nothing.
I'm really never sure what to think when I'm in this kind of place. When I was younger, this sort of state frightened me, upset me and brought on tears. But as an adult, I have lost my fear and learned to simply look at it and examine it like a biologist studying a specimen. This has made the experience much less troubling, but it has brought me no closer to identifying or understanding it. It simply is. There, black and sharp, and shimmering sticky, IT IS. It offers no apologies or explanations. Rather, it seems to wordlessly demand, "What will you make of me?" I feel as though it is expecting me to eventually (one of these times) understand why it is there. But I always stare, uncomprehending, until it vanishes with a dismissive exclamation, off to hibernate until its next appearance.
Will I ever understand what it truly is?
I can't help but feel an overwhelming sense that there is great potential in this dank, bizarre, musty feeling. This experience is brimming with a meaning that is right in my face, showing me in the surface of its waters the reflection of myself and MY meaning.
Yet, as through a glass darkly, all I can see are shadows.
All I can hear are echoes.
