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.
There was a story etched in each wrinkle on his forehead-the stories any long life can amass but that only a lonely life locks forever.
And I wasn’t playing a role – I was trying to be myself.
But the harder I was striving, the more I was realizing that I had probably lost that ‘myself’ somewhere between two perfectly performed roles…
the code of a world he’d never been invited to join.
The actuality that the heart does not want to feel, doesn’t negate the certitude that it once felt and will still feel.
Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.
In the deepest darkness God tenderly grasps my hand and whispers that darkness is nothing more than a place that He is preparing for the arrival of light.