There exists a loneliness in me that I cannot name. On nights when I end up alone, the kind of alone that has nothing to do with having no one around, I feel this loneliness creeping in like a dense fog.
It’s the kind of alone that presses in from all sides as it insulates me fully from light and touch and good thoughts. That kind of alone, I have never been able to name. On these nights I think of past lovers, of past friends, of past versions of people and events that exist no more. I think about how incredibly sad change can be, how sometimes happiness is only slated to be with us for a limited time before it waves goodbye and walks out the door, leaving us to wonder when and if it’s ever coming back again.
On these nights I crave the warmth of human companionship even when it is the…
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