Unpopular, lonely and loving, Elinor need not trouble, For if she were not so loving, She would not be so miserable.
For Beatrice, when we first met,
I was lonely, and you were pretty.
Now I am pretty lonely.
I wish someone would promise me that nothing is meaningless,
Lazy people live lonely lives.
Never knew the word Goodbye could scatter my heart into pieces. Just 1 word, could made me cry over you.
I didn’t say anything; I could find no words that would express the swirled chaos of emotions inside me. So I just watched him go right out the door.
You’re innocent until proven guilty,
You are alone,
You speak back to silence.
People call it loneliness,
You call it solitude,
Meaning the same pain.
The problem with making a virtual world of oneself is akin to the problem with projecting ourselves onto a cyberworld: there’s no end of virtual spaces in which to seek stimulation, but their very endlessness, the perpetual stimulation without satisfaction, becomes imprisoning.
Bukowski was dead wrong, the man was drunk most likely when he said this.
Sometimes you get so fucking lonely that it makes no sense whatsoever. That sense losses meaning and usage, that meaning losses context as the sky pushes down upon you and threatens you to act a little more like your fellow human beings or else it’ll cut your throat. When one is this lonely insanity is the only logical route and im on it quite well.